


Slice of Heaven

by domesticadventures, propinquitous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Sex, Community: deancasbigbang, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Emetophobia, Headaches & Migraines, Human Castiel, M/M, Stripper Dean, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:04:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures, https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean loves stripping. He works at a club called Slice of Heaven - the pay is good, his coworkers are great, and he gets to do what he wants with the rest of his time.</p><p>Castiel is pretty sure there’s more to it than that, and Dean, well. Dean isn’t sure there’s more to Castiel, but with all the money the guy’s throwing at him, he’s not about to complain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Extra special thanks to the lovely [Mara](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com) for betaing.

Dean loves stripping. 

He works full-time at a place downtown called Slice of Heaven and he loves it there. If prompted, he’ll say something about the atmosphere, his coworkers, the clientele. Which is all true, but the fact that most nights he can get at least four or five dances in and the club only charges him twenty percent is pretty sweet. He’s a popular attraction, too, calls himself Chastity just because it makes him grin when he introduces himself. It usually makes his customers smile, too.

It’s Friday, one of the busier nights at the club. People come by after work, earlier than any other day of the week, ready to drink and blow off steam by seven or eight. By ten o’clock the place is packed and Dean’s busy with a bachelorette party, the bride-to-be a woman with dark hair who won’t stop smiling. Her laughter gets louder when he rolls his hips and brings them close to her face, and it’s not long before he finds himself laughing with her. Her enthusiasm spurs him on, and he lets his hips move him forward until the bride-to-be’s face is level with his crotch.

“Oh no, I shouldn’t have another one,” one of the bridesmaids to Dean’s left says, waving a waiter off with the purple dildo in her hand.

“Yes you _should_ , Donna,” another of the women says, snatching the rubber dick and trying to swat her with it. “Yes you should.”

“No, I’m trying to watch my calories,” Donna says. Dean turns around just in time to see her lunge in an attempt to reclaim the dildo. He grins before turning back around and raising an eyebrow at the bride-to-be, tilting his head toward Donna in a silent question. Her grin is all the permission he needs.

“You really don’t need to,” he says, standing and sauntering towards Donna until he’s standing right in front of her. She lets her gaze drift slowly up from Dean’s crotch to his face. When their eyes meet, he smiles, big and genuines. “Why watch your calories when I’m right here?”

Dean takes the women’s whistling as his cue, but he takes his time. He sinks down until he’s face to face with Donna and then flips around, one hand trailing behind him over her chest. He can feel her breath, just barely, over his shoulder. For a moment he stays there, working his shoulders in small circles to the beat of the music, letting them brush against her thighs. This is the part of his job he loves the most, when he can let his instincts take control, let his hands ghost over her legs until he can hear her gasp. Slowly, he slides back up. She’s blushing and her chest heaves little. He winks at the bride and she raises her glass to him, laughing.

In his periphery, Dean catches sight of a group beckoning Meg over toward a guy in their group, some dude with dark hair and a well-cut suit. He’s a big fan of these transactions; Meg likes to cycle through the seven deadly sins when she gives her name, forcing repeat customers to suffer through the embarrassment of asking for someone who all of her coworkers, her willing partners in crime, will promptly claim does not exist. Over the sound of the music, Dean can just hear her introducing herself as Wrath. Dean can’t quite see the guy’s facial expression in this lighting, but he can tell he shifts in his seat. Dean tries not to grin, he really does.

Dean briefly shifts his attention back to his customers to collect his tips and bid his farewells, but he can still see Meg working her magic over the maid of honor’s shoulder.

Except, well, it _isn’t_ working, and when Meg turns toward Dean to bend over in front of the guy’s face, her scowl makes him think she really is Wrath. Dean does his best to look sympathetic as she gets her dance over with and excuses herself.

Dean isn’t sure who he feels more sorry for as he makes his way toward the group, meeting Meg halfway. He doesn’t even get a chance to tease her about how it went before she stomps past him, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

“Ugh, your turn,” she says, clearly annoyed.

Dean grins. “Challenge accepted.”

Dean saunters over to the group and gestures casually to their awkward friend. “Maybe I can help,” he says confidently. A few of them chuckle, but it’s only a matter of seconds before one of the guys ( _A smoking hot one,_ Dean notes. _Damn_.) hands him some cash and says, “Well, have at it.”

Dean makes his way to the impending recipient of his charms, taking in his features as he gets close enough to finally see the guy’s face. In different light, from a different angle, he might be almost attractive. Here, though, the dim light of the club accentuates the lines on his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes. Dean may be in his element, but this guy, so clearly outside of his own, looks nothing short of pitiful.

As if to prove Dean’s point for him, the guy tenses up as soon as Dean approaches him.

"Calm down, man,” Dean says, smiling, aiming for lighthearted. “I don't bite. Unless you're into that.”

“I am not,” the guy says, with a tone so serious that Dean is briefly embarrassed for him.

“Whatever you say, cowboy.” Dean chuckles, leaning over to plant his hands on the back of the chair, maintaining eye contact as he brackets the guy’s hips with his thighs. He has a defiant tilt to his chin that makes Dean smile.

Dean starts slow. He keeps himself elevated, doesn’t let himself touch any part of this guy as he moves. He rolls his hips, giving an exaggerated curve to his back that he knows you’d have to be insane not appreciate. With each downstroke he lets himself push closer to the guy’s chest, until they’re almost nose to nose and pressed up against each other.

“This won’t work on me,” the guy says suddenly.

Dean laughs gently in his face and keeps moving. “You don’t think so?” Dean asks, hooking one thumb into the waist of his thong.

“No,” the guy says, but his eyes flicker from Dean’s face to his hips just long enough that Dean isn’t particularly worried about his odds.

“I think you’re gonna lose that bet,” Dean drawls.

“I wasn’t aware this was a competition,” the guy says. He has his expression back under control, but the way he swallows is a dead giveaway.

“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” Dean says, pulling at the snaps on his hips and letting the thong drop to the floor. He waits a second for the guy to realize what’s happened, for him to look down and process what he’s seeing, before he turns around and sits in his lap. Dean can feel the guy breathing fast and open-mouthed against his back.

“Careful,” Dean says, winking playfully as he turns to glance at the guy’s lips, “wouldn’t want anyone to take that as an open invitation.”

Dean smirks when his mouth snaps shut and his fingers dig into the armrests. He grinds against the guy’s lap and watches his knuckles turn white.

“Isn’t that against the rules?” the guy chokes out. Dean feels a hard line against the back of his thigh and smiles, circling his hips a few more times. He leans back and rests his head against the guy’s shoulder, lets the slight thrust of the hips beneath his own keep him moving. Dean turns so that his nose brushes against the guy’s cheek and exhales warmly.

“I make the rules,” Dean breathes, and the satisfaction he feels when the guy shudder beneath him is nothing compared to what he feels when his hands reach up to grip Dean’s hips. He inhales sharply, shocked by his body’s sudden betrayal, and in that moment, Dean knows he's won.

“And _you_ break them, apparently,” Dean says, smirking as he stands up, hips sliding from the guy’s grip.

The guy is flushed and breathing hard, and Dean’s grand finale earns him enthusiastic cheers and whistles from the rest of the group. He feels an overwhelming sense of satisfaction right up until the moment the guy snaps his head towards his friends and just _wilts,_ sinking lower into his seat like the cushions will open up and swallow him up if he wills it. Dean’s satisfaction immediately turns to confused guilt. He thought he had seen all the possible reactions to his handiwork, but this one’s new.

 _Walk away,_ a voice in Dean’s head tells him, but the guy looks so mortified and, well, fuck. He schools his expression into something more sympathetic as he pulls his thong back on and extends a hand.

“Hey man, let me get you a drink. On the house,” Dean says. He’s not sure what he did wrong, but the guy is clearly unhappy. The game is fun, but he doesn’t ever want to _actually_ embarrass anyone, not beyond a little lighthearted teasing.

The guy sits and stares at Dean’s proffered hand for a few seconds before responding.

“I can purchase my own beverage,” he says, waving Dean’s hand away, and Dean doesn’t quite manage to stifle his laugh this time.

“Dude, you’re missing the point,” Dean says, and laughs again at the deep-set scowl on the guy’s face. “Look, just come with me to the bar.” The guy hesitates for a second, but after a few encouraging shouts from his friends, he reluctantly pushes himself up off the couch and trails behind Dean to the counter. When they’re both seated, Dean with his legs spread comfortably wide and the guy perched uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, Dean asks, “What’re you drinking?”

“Cranberry juice,” the guys says, and god help him, Dean can’t keep a straight face.

“Okay, Sergeant Angel. One cranberry juice, coming right up.”

“I’m not a sergeant,” the guy says before Dean can signal the bartender. “And that’s not my name.”

For a few incredulous seconds, Dean wonders if the guy is screwing with him.

“You should watch a movie sometime,” Dean says as he flags down the bartender and orders a juice for his customer and a water for himself. The guy still looks tense, so much so that Dean has to fight the urge to grab his shoulder and shake it out of him.

“By the way,” Dean says as he turns to face him, “I’m Chastity.” He smiles sweetly, in part at his secret joke and in part in an attempt to appear as nonthreatening as possible. The guy squints thoughtfully at him for a moment, as though deciding whether or not to call Dean on his bluff.

“Castiel,” he finally says. Dean is pretty sure he’s countering Dean’s stage name with his own. He’s not about to push the issue, though, especially not when Castiel quickly retreats, sullenly sipping his cranberry juice and pointedly avoiding eye contact.

When the silence becomes too oppressive to bear, Dean tries again, saying, “Look, I’m really sorry.”

Castiel looks up from his drink with a start. “For what?”

“For getting a little carried away back there,” Dean says. “I wanted you to have a good time. Really. I, uh, I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of your friends. So, I’m sorry about that.” When Castiel glances at him skeptically, one eyebrow raised, Dean gestures helplessly. “What? I mean it.”

Castiel exhales slowly, and some of the tension drains from his shoulders as he mumbles, “They’re not my friends, they’re my employees. I shouldn’t have--we’re in public and I barely know them, and I _definitely_ don’t know _you_ , and--” He stops to huff a sigh into his drink.

Dean smiles and nudges Castiel gently. “Are you kidding me? That makes it even easier. They have a problem, you fire ‘em. Though none of them seem to have a problem, the way they were cheering you on.”

“I just.” Castiel sighs again. “I don’t want to be the subject of office gossip.” Dean stares at him as he pauses to sip his drink. “I don’t have romantic relationships, and I certainly don’t indulge in public sex acts,” he concludes.

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s not a big deal, Cas. First of all, that wasn’t a sex act. And second, you enjoyed it because I’m _great_ at it. It’s not something to be ashamed of. Anybody gives you crap about it, you send ‘em to me and I’ll prove you never stood a chance.” He winks at Castiel again, and, thank god, the poor guy finally cracks the barest smile.

“All right,” Dean says, grinning as he claps Castiel on the shoulder. “I gotta get back to work, but hey, you’re welcome here any time.” He stands, knocking back the rest of his drink. “Just think about it,” he says, and then he’s waving as he makes his way back into the crowd, shaking his ass as he goes.

\--

Castiel really, really wishes he weren’t already thinking about it.

His first experience at a strip club had been...unpleasant. It had been his eighteenth birthday, and his friends had insisted they take him out to help him “loosen up a bit.” He did his best to discourage them, but one of them had bought him a lapdance, regardless. The woman they beckoned over had been rough with him, slapping at him and pulling on his hair as his friends laughed and cheered her on. It wasn’t an experience he wished to repeat. His hesitance to even patronize a similar establishment had, he thought, been a reasonable reaction.

And then the stripper his employees had called over had introduced herself as Wrath, and, well. How was he _supposed_ to react? Even though she had been perfectly pleasant and civil, the lingering aversion had been too much for him to overcome, even after all these years.

So it threw him off, the way Chastity had been able to elicit such a reaction from him so quickly. It was unexpected. Pleasant, but unexpected.

Just like the way he can’t seem to get Chastity out of his head is unexpected.

It takes a week before Castiel works up the courage to take Chastity up on his offer. In the days leading up to it, he gets through _Showgirls, Strip Tease,_ and a season and a half of _Secret Diary of a Call Girl_ in an attempt to learn more about Chastity’s life, to try and figure out what it is that makes him so compelling. It’s enough research that by the time he shows up at Slice of Heaven on the next Friday night, he knows exactly how he’s going to start the conversation.

“Is Chastity here?” Castiel asks the bouncer, who points toward the center of the room, where Chastity is slowly circling a pole. Castiel can’t really move in that moment, not while he’s watching Chastity hook a leg around the damn thing and _spin_ , holding himself up with nothing but the strength of his thighs.

Castiel can field phone calls and give orders and explain the finer points of his particular brand of mechanical engineering all at once, but he spends five seconds watching Chastity pole dance and his brain short circuits. Apparently, he can't even watch Chastity dance and _walk_ at the same time. The bouncer is laughing somewhere behind him, but it barely registers.

Eventually, Castiel finds it in himself to resume his mission, something that propels him forward. He’s walking toward Chastity, who’s still upside-down, nothing but the friction between his thighs and the pole holding him up. Castiel reaches the edge of the stage and pauses, staring up at Chastity in slack-jawed awe. After a couple of spins, he seems to notice him and comes to a slow stop, winding up hanging upside-down, left leg bent behind the pole and resting on his right knee, suspending him in midair. He crosses his arms over his chest, looks Castiel right in the eye, and _smirks._

Castiel is not one to forget things. He can recall conversations in perfect detail without notes, memorize formulae with ease, recall every present he’s ever gotten for Christmas since he was five. He never gets blackout drunk, has no missing moments in his life except for those that were carefully planned and scheduled to end at a time predesignated and programmed into his alarm clock. But the next thirty seconds of his life are perfectly, stunningly blank.

When he snaps out of it, his face is burning and Chastity is back to spinning and laughing. Castiel curses at himself silently as he goes to find a seat. A plan. He had a _plan._ He just needs a minute to gather his thoughts and he’ll be back on track.

Unfortunately, Chastity apparently had plans of his own, because not two minutes later, Castiel is startled when a familiar voice says, “Fancy seeing you here.”

Chastity is standing in front of him in chaps and a cowboy hat he picked up somewhere between the stage and Castiel. When Castiel’s eyes finally reach his face, he clicks his tongue and smirks as he tips his hat.

“I--I, uh--” Castiel begins uselessly.

“Enjoyed my little dance, I know,” he interrupts, sparing Castiel the trouble of trying to form coherent thoughts for the time being. He takes a seat next to Castiel on the couch, leaning back against the opposite armrest with his legs spread a little wider than strictly necessary. “Came here to rub it in.” Chastity winks like he’s sharing a secret. Castiel stares at him for a moment before turning his eyes to the bar.

“Would you like something to drink, Chastity?” Castiel asks, choosing to ignore his gloating. After a few seconds of silence, Castiel turns back around to find him convulsing with breathless laughter. Castiel scowls. “What?” he demands.

“Did you,” Chastity asks, gasping. “Oh my god, did you think that was my _real name?_ ”

“Why would I--” Castiel huffs indignantly. “I generally don’t assume people are lying to me about their names,” he says, lamely.

“Dude, c’mon,” not-Chastity says. “You can’t tell me you’ve never heard of people using stripper names. It’s par for the course in this business. Plus, it’s not like you gave me your real name, either.” Castiel goes still at that, trying to work out whether he should attempt to play it all off as a joke. It’s too late, though. “Oh my god. You _did_ give me your real name.”

“Well, yes,” Castiel says, glaring off to the side, toward the bar. He spends a few seconds looking down, picking at his cuticles before speaking again. “I’m sorry.”

“Shit, don’t apologize. Here. Do-over.” He clears his throat and extends a hand. “Hi, my name is Dean. Pleased to meet you.”

Castiel only hesitates for a moment before deciding to trust Dean’s apparent earnestness.

“Castiel Novak. The pleasure is mine,” he says, taking Dean’s hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it occurs to Castiel with surprising clarity that it’s the first platonic touch they’ve exchanged. Still, as Dean takes his hand back, Castiel’s mind lingers on the sensation of Dean’s fingers brushing against his own, on how strong Dean’s grip had been.

“I--Christ,” Castiel says, more to himself than to Dean, and resists the urge to hide his face in his hands.

“No, Dean, remember?” Dean says, still smirking. “What brings you back so soon?”

“I just,” Castiel starts, suddenly even more embarrassed. Seeing Dean here, so confident in his element, already has him doubting his plan. “I just wanted to check on you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at that. “Check on me? Gee, thanks, mom.”

“No, Castiel, remember?” Castiel says, with a sly smile, and when Dean throws his head back and laughs, warmth spreads from Castiel’s face and into his chest, giving him the courage to continue. Before he can, though, Dean sidles up close to him, right into his personal space, shamelessly checking him out.

“So, Cas,” Dean says, “what can I wrangle up for you today?”

“Actually, I was, um,” Castiel begins, somewhat sheepishly. “I was hoping to talk to you. Get to know you better?” It comes out as a question, more pleading than he intended.

“Well, in that case,” Dean says, leaning even closer into Castiel, breath warm against his cheek, “I guess I’ll just...have to…”

And then Dean is standing up, straightening his hat. “...find another customer,” he finishes. “I ain’t here to chit-chat, partner.” Dean winks again as he turns to walk away, and that’s when Castiel notices Dean is wearing _assless_ chaps. It catches him so off-guard that Dean is almost out of earshot by the time he gathers his senses.

“Wait!” Castiel calls, just a little more loudly than he intended. Dean turns halfway around, looking at Castiel skeptically. “I didn’t mean...I mean, I would compensate you for your time, of course.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but he makes his way back over to Castiel, standing in front of him with his hands on his hips. “So, what?” he asks. “You want me to give you my life story while my junk is in your face?”

“Well, that’s not--” Castiel begins, but Dean is shaking his head and chuckling slightly.

“Whatever,” Dean says. “Not the weirdest thing I’ve ever done. But remember that this is a business transaction, all right? Don’t make it weird.”

Castiel has no idea what might constitute “making it weird,” but he’s not about to admit that to Dean, so he just nods and hands over the cash.

As Dean starts his dance, Castiel tries to remain focused. “So,” he begins, thinking back to the research he’s been doing, “why do you...you know.”

“Why do I what?” Dean asks. Castiel notes that Dean’s ass is approximately three inches from his face. It is becoming increasingly difficult to remember what he was going to say.

“Why do you do this...this sort of work? I mean, there must be a reason…” He trails off hopefully, thinking Dean will start filling in the blanks any moment now.

Dean keeps dancing, unhelpfully. “What, you mean why do I work here?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “This line of work seems very...difficult.”

Dean laughs a little, and when he responds, Castiel can practically hear the shrug in his voice. “I dunno,” he says. “I like it.”

“Surely that can’t be the only reason,” Castiel says, insistent. Dean pauses and turns around to face Castiel, looking at him suspiciously. Castiel thinks he’s finally about to get some real answers.

“Wait a minute,” Dean says, eyes narrowing. “Are you trying to get my fucking _tragic backstory?_ ”

“Well, I don’t--I mean, I wouldn’t put it that way, necessarily--” Castiel says. He grimaces under Dean’s incredulous stare, and just as he’s thinking he _really_ screwed this up, Dean relaxes, throwing his head back as he laughs.

“Oh, man,” Dean says, when he finally manages to catch his breath. Castiel notices that there are tears in his eyes from laughing. “I gotta admit, this is a new one. Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have some sob story to tell you. I’m doing this because I like it. Take your weird fantasy somewhere else, buddy.”

Castiel feels a blush creeping across his face, down his neck, until his whole body feels like it’s on fire. “I’m sorry,” he says, feebly, hoping he doesn’t look as crestfallen as he feels. “Really. I didn’t mean to...to offend. I just wanted to get to know you.” He’s practically pleading by the end, but he doesn’t care. For some reason, he can’t stand the thought that he’s already alienated Dean during his first attempt to befriend him.

Dean sighs. “All right, all right,” he says. “I believe you. But I’m here to work, okay? And I’m fine with it. Really.” When Castiel nods, he adds, helpfully, “Do you want me to finish the dance?”

“I would like that,” Castiel mumbles, defeated.

Well, shit.

\--

 _Well, that was weird,_ Dean thinks as he walks away, pulling out the bill Castiel had tucked into his belt. When he unfolds it, he pauses. $100. Huh.

 _Maybe not_ that _weird._

As far as customers go, actually, Cas really isn’t bad. A little strange, yeah, but in a missing-social-cues kind of way, not a gonna-follow-him-home kinda way. Awkward he can handle. It’s sort of endearing, actually. And if Cas is going to keep asking him questions in that gravelly voice while forking out a bunch of cash, well. He isn’t going to complain.

“Here to continue trying to save me from this terrible life where I have to sell my body just to pay the bills?” Dean asks the next time Castiel shows up. The poor guy looks stunned, and Dean tries not to laugh.

“Look,” Dean says, because he knows an opportunity for easy money when he sees one, “if you’re gonna make a habit of this, why not get a VIP room? Better seating, a little champagne. You know, just you and me.” And because he’s feeling nice, he adds, “I’m not promising I’ll give you the answers you want, but you could ask questions for a whole hour, no interruptions.”

To Dean’s surprise, the suggestion just makes Castiel look even more miserable. “No, thank you,” he says. “I don’t want to make you even more uncomfortable than I already have.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Dude, are you for real? If you could see yourself right now, you’d know you’re the one who needs to loosen up. Really, it’s fine. I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t interested.”

Castiel perks up, even though he hesitates for a few moments before he finally says, “Well, all right. If you’re really fine with it.”

Dean grins. Oh, yeah. He’s $300-an-hour fine with it.

“Sweet. Can I get you a drink before we get started?” Dean asks, waving over a waiter.

“Another cranberry juice, thank you,” Castiel says. When Dean raises an eyebrow at him, he visibly bristles. “What?”

Dean shrugs. “Just not the usual sort of drink people order.”

Castiel shifts on his feet, eyes fixed on the floor. “I can’t have alcohol because of my medication.” Dean waits for more of an explanation, unsure of how to proceed. “It’s just for headaches,” Cas clarifies after a moment.

“Oh,” Dean says, turning away from Castiel for a moment to place his order. When he turns back, Castiel still looks uncomfortable. “Does it get rid of the headaches, at least?”

Castiel looks up at him, then, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to the side, like maybe he’s working out whether or not he should tell Dean the truth. After a moment, though, Castiel sighs, shoulders sagging. “No.”

“That’s rough, man,” Dean says. “Hardly seems fair.”

“Horribly unfair,” Castiel agrees, smiling slightly.

Hey, Dean thinks, small victories. The waiter returns and passes Castiel his juice, and he tags along behind Dean as he heads to one of the VIP rooms.

“So,” Castiel says as soon as he’s seated, “why do you work here?” He looks surprisingly at home in this ostentatious room, with its ceiling painted in mimicry of the Sistine Chapel, the art like stained glass windows, the plush couches in red with gold trim. Dean chuckles. He’s used to people not wasting any time, but not quite like this.

“I was being honest before,” Dean says. “I like it. Like the work, like the people.”

“That can’t really be all,” Castiel insists. He looks small as he sinks into the soft cushions.

“Yeah, man, it can. The pay is kickass, the owners are nice, the work is fun. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m great at it.” He rocks his hips toward Castiel’s face and pauses for a moment when Castiel opens his mouth.

“You’re not really…‘selling yourself to pay the bills’, as you said?”

Dean rolls his eyes and plants himself in Castiel’s lap.

“Jesus, dude, no. If I wasn’t happy here, I would do something else. I am a man of many talents,” Dean says, circling his hips.

“And when you’re not...here. What do you do?” Castiel says, his breath coming quick and shallow.

“What, like hobbies?” Dean’s willing to do a lot in order to do a good job, but he’s not about to tell some stranger about all the ways he spends his free time. Way too much of a risk.

“Well, are you going to school?” Castiel asks, and Dean breathes a small sigh of relief at the benign question.

“Nah.” Dean punctuates his answer with a particularly hard thrust down. Castiel’s hands are planted firmly on the couch, fingers curled.

“Are you saving to go to school?” Castiel gasps.

“Also nah.” Another press onto Castiel’s erection.

“You’ve never even thought about it?”

“Dude, I’m almost thirty. Of course I’ve thought about it. But this is easy and fun, no studying required. Anyway, I tried college. It didn’t suit me.” Dean slides up so that the tip of Castiel’s nose brushes his chest before he turns around and touches the floor.

“Was it too expensive?” Cas’ voice is quiet but persistent.

“Oh my god,” Dean says as he shakes his ass with no hint of subtlety. “Look, I don’t know what sort of ideas you’ve got about people who don’t dress in fancy suits for a living, but not all of us are broke and desperate, all right? I tried college. _It didn’t suit me._ Seriously.”

“Fine,” Castiel grumbles. He downs the rest of his juice, clearly giving up for the evening.

Dean smiles when he stands. “Oh, would you look at the time.”

It hasn’t actually been a full hour, but Castiel nevertheless adjusts his pants and pulls out his wallet. He hands Dean $500 and doesn’t say another word before he walks out of the room.

Dean almost feels bad about it, but hell if he’s gonna turn down that kind of tip.

\--

“Another round in the Chapel?” Dean asks the following week. Cas nods and gives the barest hint of a smile; Dean returns it as he leads him to what he’s already thinking of as their regular room.

“So, planning on continuing with your interrogation tonight?” Dean asks as Castiel takes his seat.

“I would prefer if you didn’t refer to it as such,” Cas says, bristling.

“C’mon, I was only teasing,” Dean says. “Whatever gets you off, man. I aim to please,” he laughs, popping open a bottle of champagne. He spills a little over his hands and smiles at the opportunity to make a show of cleaning it up, closing his eyes and letting his middle and fore fingers slide into his mouth. He slips his tongue between them and feels a jolt of surprise when warmth sparks low in his pelvis.

Castiel still looks put off, but when his first out of the blue question is “What about your parents?”, Dean figures he must not be _that_ put off. He sighs and pours himself a glass.

“What about them?”

“Are they.” Castiel pauses and looks down. “Alive? Nearby?”

“What, as opposed to dead and far away? Nah, my mom lives like ten minutes from here.” Dean takes a sip and sets the glass down before setting into his routine.

“And your dad?”

“Illinois.” Thrust.

“Why?”

“That’s where he lives? Haven’t seen him since I was, like, four.” Grind.

“That must have been hard.”

“Nah,” Dean says, opting to spare Castiel the obvious bad joke he set himself up for.

“Your father leaves when you’re four and all you have to say about it is ‘nah’?”

“Nah.”

Castiel glares. Dean doesn’t want to feel compelled to share information just because this guy is basically paying Dean’s bills all on his own, but damn. That look is actually pretty hot. Dean sighs internally, rolling his eyes.

“Jesus, fine. First of all, he didn’t leave. My mom kicked him out after she caught him cheating. You wanna find out about him, you’ll have to ask her. That’s not an invitation, by the way,” Dean says, leveling a glare of his own.

Castiel raises his hands defensively. “And?”

“And what?”

“You said ‘first of all.’ Implying there’s something else.” Castiel actually looks smug, or something like it. Yeah, he definitely looks smug, Dean thinks. That’s a good look on him, too. Doesn’t mean Dean has to like it, though.

“Ugh. Second, I barely remember the guy, and it’s not like his absence ruined our lives or anything.” Dean rolls his hips again. It’s weird to talk about his dad like this while he’s working, but for this great a reward, he’s not complaining. “Anyway, I couldn’t ask for a better mom. His loss, really.”

Castiel squints at him, surprisingly focused on the conversation, all things considered. Dean picks up his pace, but Castiel is tenacious. “Are you doing this for her?”

It catches Dean a bit off guard. “Uh,” he says, wondering if Castiel is seriously asking what Dean thinks he’s asking. Man, that guy has really watched too many stripper flicks. “What?”

“This...line of work,” Castiel says slowly, cautious, as though realizing the absurdity of his question. “Are you doing it to support her?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “No way. If anyone can take care of herself, it’s my mom.”

Castiel huffs an exasperated sigh. “What, then?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. This may be easy money, but that doesn’t mean he’s not gonna have some fun making sure Castiel works for every piece of information he wants.

“You’re just doing this for yourself?” Castiel asks finally, hesitant, as though the reality of the situation is just now dawning on him. Which, to be fair, it probably is.

“Yes,” Dean says, pressing himself against Castiel, running his hands up his sides in encouragement. He breathes the words against his lips, just inches from his face. “Like I’ve been telling you all along.”

“Why?”

“You really gonna pay me this much to ask me the same questions over and over?” Dean asks, but there’s no heat in it. “I told you, I’m here because I like it.” He wraps his arms behind Castiel’s head and grinds in slow circles in his lap. Yeah, he’s definitely starting to like Cas’ lap.

“But you’re not saving for college.” It’s a statement, not a question. Small steps, Dean supposes.

“Nope.”

“What, then?”

“Does there have to be more of a reason?” Dean gently ruts up into Castiel’s stomach.

Castiel gasps, digging his fingers further into the couch, but he soldiers on. “I don’t know, paying off crippling debt?”

Dean actually laughs out loud at that. “Nope. If I was, I would be working a hell of a lot harder for your money.”

Castiel squints at him suspiciously. “Any siblings?” he asks. Dean starts to wonder if Castiel is going to run through the entire gamut before he finally gives up.

“Just my brother.”

“Older or younger?”

“Younger. Why?” Dean sighs. When Castiel pauses ominously, he’s pretty sure he knows what’s coming next.

“Are you doing this for him?”

Yep, there it is.

It’s so cliché that Dean can’t help it. He starts laughing as he rolls off of Castiel, and even when he finds himself gasping for breath, he can’t seem to stop.

He’s still laughing as Castiel huffs indignantly, sets the money on the table, and stomps toward the door, walking awkwardly in an attempt to hide his erection.

“That doesn’t go down by midnight,” Dean calls behind him, “You get yourself to a hospital. I don’t need that on my conscience.”


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel knows, logically, that his company will function just fine without him. His employees are competent and passionate. They’ll come to work. They’ll do their jobs. They’ll keep everything running smoothly and efficiently. Things won’t fall apart in his absence.

So it’s bad enough feeling like he’s spending so much of his time at a strip club, of all places, instead of working. He knows there’s always something more important he could be doing than indulging in Dean’s company, no matter how much he enjoys it, no matter how refreshing it is to spend time with someone he doesn’t employ, who never seems intimidated by him, who helps him feel more relaxed than he has in ages. No matter how much he wants help solve all Dean’s problems, even though he can’t solve his own. No matter how much he enjoys the way Dean--

Well. He knows he could be doing actual work instead. But that guilt is nothing compared to what he feels when he doesn’t go into work at all.

His headaches have been especially bad lately, a vise wrapped around his forehead, drilling into his temples. By mid-afternoon, they’re typically bad enough that his jaw aches, too, and he can feel his pulse in his teeth. He takes his meds every four hours, exactly as instructed, even though he’s resigned himself to the fact that they do absolutely nothing to curb the pain. He’s tried so many medications by this point that he’s lost track.

The first few days, he still manages to drag himself to work. He spends most of the day in a fog, every task a struggle. He puts off his meetings, delegates his work, sends his calls to voicemail.

When five o’clock on Friday finally rolls around, Castiel says a silent prayer of thanks as he packs up and gets ready to head back to his apartment. He runs into Gabriel on the way out, giving a stiff nod as he joins his colleague on the elevator.

“So, hey, some of us are planning on hanging out tonight, maybe grabbing a couple beers or something. You’re welcome to join us if you want,” Gabriel says, pressing the button for the lobby. “Might help liven you up a bit. You look like death warmed over.”

The thing is, Castiel would like to go out. But when he thinks about it, thinks about the inevitable awkward attempts at conversation, the futile attempts to focus through his throbbing headache, the struggle to stay awake and alert and be fun and energetic and engaging -- he just can’t do it. He doesn’t want to subject Gabriel and his friends to that.

“Sorry,” Castiel says, hoping it sounds genuine. “Maybe next time.”

Gabriel simply shrugs it off as though it doesn’t bother him. “You got it, boss,” he says, grinning, and gives a lazy two-fingered salute as he steps out of the elevator and heads for his car. Castiel hopes the smile means he hasn’t put Gabriel off, but then again, Gabriel always seems to be smirking at one thing or another. It makes it hard to tell.

Castiel tries not to dwell as he sits in traffic. He didn’t think his headache could get much worse, but by the time he finally gets to his apartment, an hour spent squinting into the sun has proved him wrong.

He tosses his stuff on the floor as he drags himself to the couch, abandoning his shoes by the door, his briefcase in the hallway, his suit jacket next to the armchair. He flops onto the cushions, turning the TV on and settling for zoning out while a Discovery Channel marathon of _How Stuff Works_ plays in the background.

He’s midway through the second episode when his mother calls. He stares at his phone and contemplates talking to her, tries to imagine what he could possibly say about how his week is going, to decide if he can handle even minimal human interaction right now. He takes so long to make the decision that the call goes to voicemail. He stares at his phone in defeat as the screen goes dark.

By the end of episode four, his stomach is growling. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, but he doesn’t have the energy to order food for delivery. He can’t even work up the motivation to pick up the remote, turn off the TV, and drag himself to bed. Instead, he just sits in front of the TV until he falls asleep.

Cas dreams of bodies broken down to their base components. He sees it all, the creation of the human form in all its glory, atoms forming molecules forming muscles and organs, a person being built from nothing piece by piece. He understands it in a way he never thought possible, how everything fits and works together.

When he jolts awake in the middle of the night, he doesn’t remember any of it in enough detail to do him any good. It would be fine if he forgot the dream in its entirety, he thinks, but his subconscious isn’t that kind. As he lies there staring at the dark ceiling, he can’t seem to shake the lingering sense that while he was sleeping, he saw how to fix himself, but now that he’s conscious, the knowledge has already slipped too far from his grasp for him to do anything about it. He sighs. It’s going to be a very long night.

When Cas’ alarm goes off at seven, he feels like he hasn’t slept at all. Normally, he would try to get some work done on the weekends, keep being productive, keep moving. Instead, he snoozes his alarm repeatedly, drifting in and out of consciousness during the ten-minute intervals. When he finally feels awake enough to at least function at some minimum level, he drags himself out of bed and into the shower.

Afterward, he throws on the most comfortable clothes he can find, a clean pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt, and digs his car keys from the pocket of the jacket he’d discarded on the floor. He drives himself to the doctor even though he doesn’t have an appointment, saying a silent prayer of thanks that it’s only a few miles from his house.

It’s another hour before the doctor can see him, but when she does, she’s very sympathetic. He appreciates that. He just wishes she could help.

He leaves the office with a new prescription and low expectations. As he gets back in his car, he momentarily considers hiring a courier to go to the pharmacy for him, but he can’t quite justify it to himself.

He reevaluates that opinion once he gets to the store and learns that his medication won’t be ready for at least another fifteen minutes. He sighs, but he figures as long as he’s stuck in the store, he may as well make the most of it. He wanders over to the pre-made food section and picks up a container of fresh-made spring rolls from the sushi bar and a loaf of asiago cheese bread from the bakery. It’s what he wants, complementary flavors be damned.

By the time Castiel has meandered back up to the registers, made his way through the line, paid for his food, and walked back over to the pharmacy, his prescription is ready. The promise of food and meds and zero obligations is just enough motivation to drive back to his apartment.

Once he’s comfortably situated back in his bed, Castiel slips out of his jeans and turns on the TV. Today it’s a marathon of _Frozen Planet,_ which he half-watches as he takes his first round of the new medication, chasing it with the whole container of spring rolls and the entire loaf of bread.

He isn’t sure if it’s the white noise or the pills or the food, but before long, his headache has subsided enough that he drifts in and out of sleep. He doesn’t get anything resembling a solid eight hours, just a series of sort-of naps interrupted by breaks to go to the bathroom and wander around his apartment aimlessly and take another shower because he feels gross, but on the plus side, if he dreams, at least he doesn’t remember. At some point he remembers to text his mother that he’s tied up at the moment but will call her soon. He hopes the last part is true.

Castiel feels pretty shitty the next few days, too, and through a combination of his own exhaustion and his assistant’s reassurances that everything is fine, he’s able to convince himself to stay home from work on Monday and Tuesday. He feels guilty about it anyway, even though he knows going in would be pointless, would be worse for his image and for morale than his current course of action.

On Wednesday, though, he feels almost human. He has a night of vivid dreams, but they aren’t too bad. They’re all shifting colors and soft sounds, like being underwater, like floating in the ocean. It’s bearable. Almost peaceful. He wakes with only the ghost of a headache, so minor he can easily ignore it. He’s been disappointed too many times to attribute it to the new medication, but still, whatever the cause, Discovery Channel or rest and relaxation or just random chance, Castiel is thankful for it.

He stays in bed as he calls his mother and listens to her talk about long lines at the bank and the current state of her master bathroom remodel and the effects of the drought on the golf courses. He manages to follow along and “hmm” and “ah” periodically to indicate he’s listening, and after she’s finished, he tells her he’s doing fine and everything is running smoothly at work and no, he isn’t seeing anyone, and he absolutely does not tell her about Dean.

When he gets off the phone, he thinks, “I can do this.”

He showers and he puts on a suit and he goes to work.

\--

Dean keeps a mental catalogue of people’s faces. It’s a survival mechanism, really, because sometimes there are regulars and sometimes there are stalkers, and recognizing people at a glance is key to knowing the difference. So he’s used to faces running through his head, when he’s out running errands or as he drifts off to sleep or when he’s otherwise spacing out. The images are usually fleeting, and they don’t often make their way into any part of his life that could be construed as distracting.

There is one night, though, when he gets off late and can’t unwind when he gets home. He tries everything he can think of -- watching TV, eating ’til he’s overfull, listening to music -- but he’s still tense and can’t seem to relax. He lays in bed for a while tossing and turning until he gives up and goes to take a shower. He strokes himself slowly as he stands under the spray, figuring that even if this doesn’t help, either, it definitely won’t hurt.

It shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does that when he comes, standing under the warm spray of the shower, he thinks of Castiel’s face.

 _Huh,_ he thinks. _That’s new._

The best part, though, is that when he goes back to bed, he falls right asleep.

\--

After a few more days without an appearance from Castiel, Dean is starting to feel a little uncharacteristically let down. He’s grumpy about it. At first, he thinks it’s just the lack of outrageous tips and he gets annoyed at himself -- he knows he shouldn’t get too reliant on that kind of income. When the feeling lingers even after a kickass weekend, though, he has to admit it’s more than just the money; he kind of misses the surly face and inappropriate personal questions. It’s sort of endearing, actually, the way the guy seems legitimately interested in what he has to say. There are plenty of folks who show up at the club who would prefer he didn’t speak at all, just shut up and show them what they came to see. It’s a change of pace, and he finds himself mentally cataloging his mundane activities, planning out which parts he thinks Castiel might like to hear about.

It’s become such a pervasive habit that he can’t help bringing Castiel up when he’s hanging out with Benny one night before work. They’re watching _Hot Fuzz,_ which they’ve both seen so many times they can practically recite the entire script from memory, so Dean doesn’t feel too bad turning the volume down to talk over the sound of the movie.

It takes him a while to work up to saying it, but Benny is patient while Dean bounces his leg, trying to phrase what he wants to say. When he finally speaks, it all comes out in a rush. “I know this is stupid,” Dean says, “but I had this regular customer and he's pretty cool and he hasn't shown up in a while?”

Benny gives Dean a sideways glance. “What, sad to lose out on your regular paycheck, huh?”

Dean laughs awkwardly. “Well, yeah,” he says, because there’s still some merit to that. “But. I dunno. He seemed so stressed out and tired all the time, and he didn’t tell me about the cause or anything, not like I’m entitled to that info, and it’s just. Weird that he hasn’t been around.”

Benny turns to face Dean fully, considering him for a moment. “Wow,” he says, no longer teasing. “Are you actually worried about this guy?”

“I mean,” Dean sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t, I’m sure he can take care of himself. It’s just, it was nice, you know? Having this guy who actually like, talked to me instead of just shoving cash in my pants and telling me to get to work? He was kinda weird, but it was sorta endearing, and I know he meant well. I just don’t like to think something happened to him.”

Benny smiles at him softly. “You got it bad, brother.”

Dean groans dramatically. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t _have_ anything.”

“Sure you don’t,” Benny says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“You’re the worst,” Dean says, tossing a piece of popcorn at Benny’s face.

Benny calmly catches it in his mouth like the awesome jerk he is. “There are about a million reasons he coulda stopped swinging by,” he says, shrugging. “Maybe he’s at work or has family visiting or is just tired. Hell, maybe he’s on vacation. No reason to assume the worst.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean says. “I know, you’re right. It’s just hard not to, sometimes, in my line of work, you know?”

Benny hesitates for a second. He asks, “Which one?”

Dean huffs a humorless laugh. “Both.”

“Yeah brother,” he says, smiling grimly. “I know.”

They go back to watching the movie, Dean still feeling unsettled in spite of Benny’s reassurances.

\--

It’s two weeks before Dean sees Castiel again.

“Done sulking, then?” Dean asks after they’re back in their usual room, because like hell is he going to admit to worrying about this near-stranger. In the weeks since he’s last seen Castiel, he’s had plenty of time to run through all the possibilities surrounding his absence. Knowing as little about the guy as he does, he figures it’s not a bad guess, actually.

Castiel looks annoyed, brow furrowed and mouth turned down at the corners. He waves Dean off when he moves to get back into the swing of their usual routine. “I wasn’t _sulking._ ”

“Oh, come on,” Dean says, taking a seat next to Castiel and pouring himself a drink instead. “Look, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings or anything. But you’ve gotta realize how totally weird and kinda creepy this is, right?” Not that he actually finds it that weird and creepy, since he’s getting so used to Castiel just being Castiel, but he can see how someone could theoretically perceive it that way. It totally counts. He’s just doing a public service, really. Saving hypothetical others, strippers or no, from Castiel’s charms.

Castiel looks honestly confused. Dean hasn’t decided yet if that’s to his credit or not. “No?”

“Well, you roll in here after watching, what, _Showgirls?_ Like that gives you my whole story. You can’t base your ideas of people off of what you see in the movies, man, that’s messed up. If I based my opinion of you off some popular portrayals of rich, seemingly benevolent guys in nice suits, I’d think you were secretly a serial killer or a vampire or something.”

Castiel stares open-mouthed. “I -- I didn’t -- I’m not --” he stutters, looking legitimately horrified.

Dean rolls his eyes as he sips his drink. “Relax. I’m not saying you’re a serial killer or whatever. Point is, I’m more than some character in a script, all right? I don’t have some tragic backstory. This is real life. My past isn’t a plot.”

“I, I’m sorry,” Castiel says, looking truly ashamed. Dean realizes that Cas didn’t understand just how strange his line of questioning has been.

“Not saying it to make you feel bad. Just saying. But look, if it’ll help you sleep at night, I’ll give you the whole story,” he says, shrugging.

“Really?” Castiel asks, an annoyingly endearing mix of hope and doubt in his voice.

“Yep,” Dean says. “Here you go, my whole life story, rapid-fire. I grew up with my mom and my brother, nice apple pie life even though my dad was out of the picture. I finished high school just fine, decided not to go to college until my brother went and wouldn’t shut up about how great it was. Finally took the SAT when I was twenty-two and totally aced it, so I got into college no problem and hated it. I mean, I was great at research and, like, retaining information, but being told what to read and when and what to think about it drove me crazy. Must have been about halfway through my first semester when I was at this kickass party. One thing led to another, and I was sort of jokingly doing a strip tease for my friend Benny, and...” he trails off, pausing to take a breath.

Castiel is staring at him intently, gaze moving from his eyes only briefly to admire Dean’s bare torso as he shimmies in demonstration. Dean resists the urge to smirk as he continues. “He wasn’t even that drunk, but he looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘Bro, you’re actually really good at this.’ And, well, one thing led to another, and here I am, stripping for a living. I get a kick out of it, and it pays the bills, and if I wanna learn, I’ve got free time and an internet connection. It’s a pretty sweet deal.”

Castiel stares at him a moment, brow furrowed as if trying to process all this new information at once. When he speaks again, he asks, “And your brother?”

Dean grins, unable and unwilling to hide his pride. “Kid is a genius. Scored a 174 on his LSAT, just finished law school. He’s doing fine and obviously doesn’t need his big brother to hold his hand.”

“Huh.” Castiel tilts his head, as if still deciding whether or not to believe Dean’s story.

“Yep.” Dean sets his drink down and stands, stretching lazily before he gets back to his actual work. He can feel Cas’ eyes on him.

“That’s...not what I was expecting,” Castiel says, looking down at his own hands before looking up just in time to see Dean smile.

“Good,” Dean says as he seats himself in Castiel’s lap. He casts his eyes down and slows his breathing, sure that Castiel can feel the warmth on his neck. Castiel doesn’t push him away this time, so he starts rocking his hips slowly, making sure to drag his ass along Castiel’s dick. He lets his cheek graze Cas’.

“Yep, my life is pretty great,” he whispers, “but I do get...a little lonely sometimes…” He picks up some speed and lets out a small moan.

“R-really?" Castiel asks. He’s breathing hard, eyes wide. His hands are hovering just above Dean’s hips and the way he swallows reveals just how hard he’s fighting the urge to touch. 

Dean smiles against his ear and pulls back. “No, you dork. Have you _seen_ me? Jesus Christ.”

Castiel starts to groan in complaint, but it turns into something more desperate and breathless, the sound sending a shiver down Dean’s spine and straight to his dick.

It’s a good thing Castiel tips so well, because Dean has to wait a full half hour after Castiel leaves for his boner to chill out enough for him to get back to work.

\--

“So,” Dean asks Castiel two days later, “you gonna tell me about yourself or what?”

Castiel raises his eyebrows and gives a tight lipped smile.

“Oh, don’t look so smug,” Dean says. “I can practically buy myself a private jet with how much you’ve spent here by this point. May as well know where all that money’s coming from.”

Castiel shrugs. “It’s like you keep insisting about yourself. There’s not much to tell. I was an only child and had a good education, a good life.”

Castiel pauses long enough that Dean asks, “And?”

“And what?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You spent weeks hounding me about my past, and you’re gonna give me that ‘and what?’ crap? I don’t think so. C’mon, spill the beans.”

Castiel supposes that’s fair. Even though he’s paying for Dean’s time, he realizes he’s asked much more of Dean than is typical in this sort of situation. He can hardly begrudge Dean his request for a few details about his life. “It’s not terribly interesting. I graduated from high school and went straight into college. My father passed away when I was in my senior year, leaving me in charge of his fledgling company.”

Dean pauses his gyrations at that. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry to hear that, man.”

Castiel grimaces, looking away and gripping his knees. “Please, don’t be,” he says. “I loved my father, but it’s been a long time.”

Dean stares at him a moment longer, and Castiel is relieved when he finally says “All right” and resumes. “So,” Dean says, “fledgling company?”

“Yes. He had just quit his job to start his own business manufacturing semiconductors. I took over once he was gone.”

“Sounds rough.”

Castiel smiles fondly, eyes focused at some point over Dean’s shoulder. “No,” he says, “my father taught me well. I was very good at his job. _Am_ very good at it. The company is,” he pauses and runs his hands over his thighs. “Well. We now employ more than five thousand people worldwide, and we have plants in Singapore, India, and Norway. ”

Dean whistles. “No wonder you’re loaded.”

Castiel looks down at the point where Dean is grinding against his crotch. “You’re talking about my tipping, I assume?” He fights a smile, but he can’t stop the left corner of his mouth from just barely quirking upwards.

Dean laughs and presses onward. “And your mom?”

“Retired. Living quite comfortably in Palm Springs.”

Dean hums approvingly. “And you?”

“What about me?” Castiel shifts, moves his hands to the side so that he’s almost splayed out underneath Dean.

“Don’t you do anything for fun?”

“Yes, of course.” Castiel says and fixes Dean with a level stare.

He laughs. “Now who’s being difficult?”

Castiel shrugs. “I’m having fun right now.”

“Well, can’t argue with that,” Dean says, sliding backward to stand up and shimmy out of his briefs, suddenly pausing to cock his head to the side. “Oh, I love this song,” Dean says, grinning. To Castiel’s surprise, Dean starts singing along with the music as he begins his routine. “ _You need coolin', baby, I'm not foolin',_ ” he croons, a little tunelessly, if Cas is being honest.

Even though Dean’s routine is pretty, well, routine at this point, it feels good to have Dean settle into Castiel’s lap. Dean pushes forward and holds onto Cas’ shoulders, smiling when he smiles.

“ _I'm gonna send you back to schoolin', way down inside honey,_ ” Dean sings. He drags his torso against Castiel’s chest and grabs a handful of his hair as he sings, rocking against him. Castiel relishes the feel of Dean’s arms pressed on either side of his face.

“ _You need it, I'm gonna give you my love, I'm gonna give you my love._ ” 

They don’t talk much more that evening, but Castiel spends the entire time smiling.

\--

Castiel shows up one day looking even worse for the wear than usual. The prominent circles under his eyes are darker, his shoulders sag, and he’s not even wearing a tie by the time he makes it to the club.

Dean takes one look at him and knows what he needs to do. He takes him by the hand, makes a mental note that Cas’ hands are thicker and rougher than he had ever realized, and leads him confidently into their room.

He gestures for Castiel to sit down, then sprawls on the couch, posing dramatically with one leg bent and his head propped up on his arm. “Draw me like one of your French girls,” he says.

Castiel frowns. “I possess neither French girls nor drawing materials,” he says.

Dean snorts in a decidedly un-sexy sort of way, but Cas is still frowning.

He pantomimes picking up a notebook and pen, pretending to look at Castiel over a pair of invisible reading glasses. "New strategy. Tell me about your feelings," Dean says, very seriously.

“Uh,” Castiel says, staring at Dean’s crotch pretty blatantly. Dean returns the stare, smiling. “Well, I’ve been having these awful nightmares. I don’t really remember them, but they make it feel like I haven’t slept at all. I get startled awake and by the time I have to actually get up, it’s like I’ve been awake all night. I don’t even know what I’ve been dreaming about.” Castiel stares at his palms as he talks, like he’s embarrassed about this thing that’s totally beyond his control.

“Shit, man, that sucks.” Dean smiles again, softer this time, more sympathy and less predation.

“Yes.” Castiel sighs, finally looking up. “I suppose I’m used to it by now. It’s difficult because the sleep deprivation gives me headaches, too. So I’ve been useless all day.”

“Well that sucks worse,” Dean says. He reaches over to run his fingers through the hair at Castiel’s nape, quickly graduating to gently kneading the root of his spine. “That help a little?”

Castiel moans quietly and let his head fall back.

Dean smiles as he climbs into Castiel’s lap.

“Now, let’s see if we can give this day a happy ending,” he laughs.

Based purely on the sounds he makes, Dean is sure Castiel’s night is all uphill from there.

\--

Just when Castiel has finally stopped hounding Dean about his life, when they’ve settled into an easy routine where neither of them tries to interrogate the other, the universe conspires against them.

The club is typically a noisy place, but the screaming doesn’t usually sound quite so panicked.

“What the hell?” Dean asks as he gets up. He inhales sharply as he peers through the crack in the door. “Shit,” he hisses.

“What’s going on?” Castiel asks. Dean is already slipping out the door before he’s finished his question, instructing him to “Stay put, all right?” in a tone that allows no room for argument.

“Like hell,” Castiel whispers, and Dean knows without looking that he’s getting up to follow.

Dean resolves to take care of the situation quickly, before Castiel has a chance to do anything stupid. By the time Cas manages to stand up and make his way out of the VIP room, Dean is already pushing through the crowd toward the source of the commotion. Castiel has been hurrying to catch up with him, though, and he reaches Dean just in time to see him pull his knife from inside his chaps. Castiel opens his mouth as though he’s about to call out, and then he must catch sight of what Dean is headed towards, because he freezes, mouth agape.

Dean knows exactly what it is he’s looking at, but he can tell from Castiel’s expression that he thinks he’s seeing something straight from a nightmare. He’s not far off, actually. The thing is humanoid, yes, but there’s something in its movements that sets even Dean on edge, something bestial and violent. Its eyes are shining yellow and too-bright in the dim lighting, and it’s bared both its sharp fangs and its curved claws.

“Oh _fuck,_ ” Castiel says, in a tone that makes it clear he’s realized he’s far, _far_ too close to the creature for comfort. That’s definitely a mistake, because the thing turns its gaze right on Castiel. He stands stock still, gaze fixed on the monster before him.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Castiel!” Dean yells, moving as quickly as he can to put himself between Cas and the creature, because he knows that even if Castiel weren’t paralyzed with fear, running probably wouldn’t even make him much of a challenge. The sudden movement isn’t ideal, putting him off balance, but he’ll be damned if he’s gonna let one of his favorite customers get killed on his watch.

Dean throws himself into the creature’s path just in time, colliding with it in the middle of its leap, sending them both crashing to the ground, its pointy bits way too close to his face for comfort. But he was expecting the fall and it wasn’t, and that’s all the advantage he needs to slam his blade down into the thing’s heart.

It lets out one long, inhuman howl, and then everything goes still.

The first thing Dean does is look to Castiel, who’s still staring at the creature stock still and wide-eyed. “You okay, man?” Dean asks. He’s still holding onto the hilt of the knife that’s buried in the creature’s chest.

Castiel shifts, mouth closing, eyes sliding back into focus. He looks at Dean, then, and his expression shifts to something triumphant, gloating.

“I _knew_ it,” Castiel whispers.

Dean sighs. “Oh, god dammit.”


	3. Chapter 3

Twenty minutes later, Castiel is wrapped in a fleece blanket and sitting on the bumper of an ambulance, Dean standing in front of him.

“Okay, so you understand what just happened, right?” Dean asks, pulling his robe tight around him. Castiel nods.

“I’m serious, Castiel. I need you to say that you understand.”

Castiel nods again. “I understand, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is calm, but his eyes are still wide. Dean recognizes that look, the aftereffects of an adrenaline high, the body not quite caught up with the events the mind is still desperately attempting to process. Dean sighs as he catches sight of the first police cruiser pulling up. Nothing to be done for it now, he supposes.

They interview Dean first, running through the standard questions as though a death at a strip club is no more than a slight detour from the events of their day. Dean calmly recounts the events of the evening, explaining the screaming, the upturned furniture, the way the creature (which he sensibly refers to as simply “the guy”) was threatening the clientele and totally tried to murder Castiel.

“Well,” the officer says, “we’ll have to interview a few more witnesses, but I don’t think there’s going to be any problem here.”

 _Of course not,_ Dean thinks, glancing at the corpse someone has considerately covered with a sheet to hide the still-visible claws and fangs, the unnatural eyes. _There never is._

Castiel, for his part, is a helpful witness, if a bit too enthusiastic. He’s the most animated Dean has ever seen him, gesticulating wildly as he responds to the officer’s questions with far more detail than necessary. “Holy _shit,_ ” he’s saying, currently, in response to a simple “At any point, did you feel threatened?”

“You should have _seen_ it,” Castiel continues. “ _Fuck,_ it came at me and I was _sure_ I was going to _die,_ and then he--” here, Castiel points helpfully at Dean-- “he saved my _life,_ officer, you should have _seen_ it."

“Okay, okay,” the cop says, and when he catches Dean’s eye, Dean shrugs sympathetically.

By the time the police have cleared out, Castiel appears to finally be coming down from his adrenaline high.

“You gonna be okay to drive?” Dean asks.

“Yes, I think so,” Castiel says, hands shaking a little as he pulls out his keys. Dean raises an eyebrow.

“ _Yes,_ ” Castiel repeats emphatically. “Besides, I owe you dinner after that. You saved my life,” he says, slightly awed, as though the fact is just now sinking in.

“Damn right you do,” Dean says, smiling. “You already owed me dinner after putting up with you this long.” Castiel gives him an appraising look, as though trying to determine whether or not Dean is simply trying to distract him from dwelling on the events he’s just witnessed. He wouldn’t be wrong, but then again, he wouldn’t be wrong to take Dean seriously, either.

“Oh,” Castiel says. He kicks a pebble across the asphalt. “Well, you should have said so sooner. I’d have been happy to oblige.” Dean stares at him, equal parts bemused and fond.

“You fuckin’ dummy. Pick me up at seven tomorrow,” Dean says.

Castiel’s face lights up. He’s apparently far too surprised by this turn of events to even manage a snarky comment about how his master plan had worked, after all. “That sounds good,” he says instead. He pulls out his phone and asks for Dean’s address, and if he’s aiming for casual, he misses by about a mile. Dean obliges him cheerfully, anyway.

“Seven tomorrow, then,” Castiel says.

“It’s a date,” Dean says, still grinning as he waves lazily and heads for his car.

Dean’s own words ring in his ears the entire evening. By the time he heads to bed, his face hurts from smiling. He wonders if Castiel is having a similar problem.

\--

After the ordeal at the club, Castiel spent the rest of the evening smiling. Unfortunately, his good mood doesn’t stop the nightmares.

The dreams are rarely coherent, just flashes of blood and blades and bright light. They feel unbearably real, though, and Cas wakes up covered in sweat with a searing pain in his chest. It takes him a few minutes to come down from the adrenaline rush of the battle he was fighting. He’s shaking too hard to stand and he knows from experience that if he tries to stand up now, his knees will give out. He sits up cautiously, waiting for his breathing to slow and his skin to cool before he gets up to go to the kitchen for a glass of water. Cas curses when he sees the green clock on the microwave says 3:06 a.m. He knows he’s not going back to sleep tonight.

Resigned to his insomnia, he plugs in the kettle and pulls one of the many books he hasn’t read off the shelf. He tries to not get anxious about how little sleep he’s getting before his date with Dean, tries not to feel any worse because he’s been hoping something like this would happen for months, doing his best to temper his awkwardness and not say anything too off color. He’s used to this, to constant sleep deprivation. He should be fine.

He sighs. Hopefully Dean finds the bags under his eyes charming, because they’re going to be even worse tomorrow.

\--

Castiel shows up at Dean’s place the following evening. Surely, after all the money Castiel had been spending at the club, Dean must have been expecting a nice car. Still, when Castiel rolls up in a gorgeous Galaxie 500 the exact same shade of blue as his eyes, the first words out of Dean’s mouth are, “Holy _shit._ ” Dean bypasses Cas and goes straight for the car, running a hand over the hood. “What year is she?” Dean asks, by way of greeting.

“'68. And hello to you as well,” Castiel replies. It’s the first time he’s seen Dean fully clothed, and he has to admit there’s something nice about it. He knows what’s underneath the layers of denim and cotton, but there’s something about seeing Dean in this environment, without pretense, that’s extraordinarily sexy.

“Damn,” Dean says, grazing his fingertips over the silver detailing lovingly before stepping back to take it all in. “Holy boner, Batman,” he continues. “If you’re trying to seduce me, it’s totally working.”

“Keep your pants on,” Castiel says, as though he isn’t already wishing he had chosen a looser pair himself. “Are you ready to go?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean says, grinning, cheerfully opening the passenger door and sliding into the seat. Castiel watches him out of the corner of his eye as he starts the car, notes the fondness in Dean’s gaze as he examines the interior, and then the engine is humming to life and Dean is turning that gaze on _him._

“I didn’t know you were into cars,” Dean says, and Castiel tries to ignore the small thrill he feels at the realization he’s offered Dean this pleasant surprise.

“I don’t know if I’m _into_ cars,” he says as he shifts into reverse and backs out of Dean’s driveway.

“Dude, no one has a car like this and doesn’t love it.” Dean’s voice is reverent as he runs a hand over the dash before leaning back in his seat. “My baby is a ‘67 Impala, perfect condition. Used to be my dad’s, but the way my mom tells it, it would have come to blows before she would have let him leave with that car when she kicked him out,” he says, smiling as he looks out the window. “Back when they were still dating, he wanted to buy some creepy van instead of that beauty. I mean, can you imagine?” Dean is still smiling wide as he offers up this information without prompting, lounging in the passenger seat with his hands behind his head, looking for all the world like he belongs there. Castiel can’t seem to stop smiling, either, as they drive the rest of the way in companionable silence, listening to the comforting rumble of the engine.

They drive south of town for a while, eventually leaving the freeway for a smaller highway and then turning onto a two lane road. It’s only when they get to an area that’s mostly trees with the occasional gated community that Dean speaks again.

“So you really _are_ a serial killer,” Dean says seriously, casting Castiel a suspicious glance out of the corner of his eye.

“What?” Castiel asks, trying not to scowl.

“Driving me to the middle of nowhere, no street lamps, no witnesses.”

“I don’t understand.” Castiel feels a small bubble of anxiety in his chest and looks toward Dean.

“Dude, I’m kidding. You know, vaguely attractive man drives unsuspecting super hot man into rural wasteland, leaves his body in a ditch. Like that one!” Dean shouts, pointing at a drainage ditch as they pass over it.

“Vaguely attractive?”

“Shut up.”

\--

Castiel is already pleased with how well the evening is going. Despite his exhaustion, his cheeks are starting to hurt as he parks the car and they head into the restaurant, a barbecue place that Dean had mentioned to him once in passing. They sit down and Dean speaks before Cas even has a chance to look at the menu.

“So I’m all about family style,” Dean says. He bites his lip and looks up. “Any thoughts?”

“‘All you can eat ribs, sausage, brisket, and sides,’” Cas reads. “If you think we can handle that.”

“I think we can handle that much meat,” Dean says, wiggling his eyebrows. The waitress takes their order and Dean smiles at her in a way that makes Cas’ chest tighten, a mixture of fondness and something else he can’t name.

“I’m gonna grab us some beers, any preferences?” Dean asks when the waitress leaves. “Or wait, shit, you can’t have anything, can you?”

“Actually,” Cas starts, “they changed my medication again, so I can have one or two. Whatever you want is fine.” He smiles, happy to indulge for once.

“If you say so. Hey, maybe some booze will cure your headaches.” Dean winks as he stands up. “This place is BYOB,” he explains, “but they have a little beer and wine place that’s not technically on the property.”

“Ah.” Cas gives him a small smile. Dean returns it before he walks away. 

 

It’s only a few minutes after Dean returns with a six pack of Shiner that the waitress drops off the first enormous plates of brisket and ribs. Cas’ eyes go wide at the sheer amount of food in front of him, but Dean looks less awed and more expectantly excited, like he knows exactly how much of every meat and side he can eat.

When Dean moans around his first bite of food, a few things happen at once. First, Castiel smiles involuntarily, pleased to see Dean already enjoying himself. Second, he realizes he recognizes the content smile currently working its way onto Dean’s face. He _knows_ that smile. It’s the one Dean usually wears while he’s stripping. Third, he realizes maybe he’s been a little bit of a jerk, questioning Dean’s sincerity since practically the first time they met.

Then Castiel takes _his_ first bite and his shame is washed away by the sound of his own rapturous groan.

“Good, huh?” Dean says. Castiel wonders how ridiculous he must have looked to make Dean smile at him like that.

“Very,” he agrees. He sets the rib down and takes a moment, thoughtfully licking sauce from his fingers as he stifles a yawn. As good as the food is, and as happy as he is to be eating dinner with Dean, the previous day’s events are hard to forget.

“So, tell me what that all was about the other night,” Castiel says, only a little demanding. He folds his hands together on top of the table in a perfect display of attentiveness.

Dean rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “You got it, boss. But really, there’s not much to tell. It was a werewolf,” he says, shrugging as if this isn’t an announcement fit to shatter a person’s entire worldview. He continues, unperturbed. “Probably a new one, going by the fact that he didn’t seem to know what time of the month it was. Anyway, silver knife to the heart and sayonara.” He mimes stabbing himself in the chest as he says it. Castiel doesn’t say anything, but he squints and tilts his head, considering. 

“Look, I know you’re probably still thinking I have some cool backstory I’ve been hiding from you or whatever. So seriously, here’s my tragic history in all its glory.” Dean pauses and Castiel’s eyes widen in anticipation. Dean opens his mouth as if to speak, smiles a little, spreads his hands, and tries again.

“There isn't one. I had a normal life, like I told you. My dad was kind of a dick, but my mom is A fuckin’ plus.” He pauses and looks up thoughtfully before continuing, “My brother is pretty cool, too, when he isn’t being annoying. The only weird thing is the fact that sometimes we hunt monsters. And I'm _good_ at it. Just like I’m good at dancing. I mean, you probably donate money to charity or some shit, right? Hunting is just like that, only a little more hands-on.” He leans back in his chair and takes a swig of his beer, daring Castiel to doubt him.

“I believe you,” Castiel says, because he finally does. Mostly. “But--”

“But what?” Dean’s arms have settled across his chest in an unconscious display of defensiveness.

“Wasn’t it...I don’t know.” Castiel hesitates as he tries to wrap his head around everything. “You make it sound so simple, but wasn’t it hard, being raised like that?

“Like...what?”

“Knowing monsters exist, hunting and--”

Dean interrupts him, laughing. “Dude. Seriously. You’re not getting this. I. Don’t. Have. A. Tragic. Backstory.”

Castiel huffs indignantly. “That’s not what I was trying to say.”

“I know, I know,” Dean says. “But you keep trying to find all the ways my life was horrible, and there just weren’t any.” He huffs a sigh and looks around for his next bite.

“Well then, what was your childhood like?” Cas hasn’t touched his food since this conversation started and Dean steals a piece of sausage from his plate.

“I went to school?” Dean says around a mouth full of barbeque. “Played football? Watched movies? I dunno, man, it’s like I told you before. It was good. I just did regular kid shit.” Dean smiles as he reminisces, and Castiel’s expression softens.

“Our mom waited until we were older to teach us to hunt, of course,” Dean continues, gesturing with the rib he’s now picked up. “I mean, what kind of shitty parent would put that crap on their kids? Don’t think I even picked up a gun until I was, I dunno, must have been seventeen or eighteen. Nest of vampires tried to set up shop right in our neighborhood, and Mom was having none of it,” he says, taking a bite off of a particularly meaty section of rib. “So she took us to the gun range because we were old enough to handle it, you know? She didn’t want to leave us totally in the dark and unprepared.”

Castiel nods, his doubt slowly seeping away with every new detail Dean shares with him. “So, what, she just sprung the truth on you after?”

Dean chuckles. “You make it sound so dramatic. Mom took us to lunch and laid everything out on the table like she was explaining how to do our taxes. None of that dramatic in-the-dark-of-night shit.” He smiles again as he continues, “Mom took us to a nicer place downtown, somewhere we usually only went for birthdays, you know? I remember the apple pie I had for dessert more than I remember feeling freaked. Honestly, it kinda made sense, why Grandpa Campbell wasn’t in the picture all that often, why Mom kept all of those crosses and talismans around the house.” He smiles and shakes his head, like he’s trying to draw himself back to the present.

“She told us all the basics,” he continues, “iron against ghosts, holy water against demons, silver against a whole host of things. She taught us what she knew and where to look when we didn’t have the answers. Vamps, though, those are easy enough. She and a couple other hunters did damage control, and the whole group of us took out the rest of the nest once we had a good handle on firearms. Not that killing is ever, you know, great. But it was fun, like a family project. You know, some people build birdhouses or whatever, we take out monsters. Saving people, hunting things, the family hobby.” 

Castiel frowns. “And the police?”

“What about them?”

“They didn’t give you any trouble? What happened last night, I mean, there was still a corpse left behind.” Cas pauses, thinking back. “There were witnesses to corroborate the claims of self-defense, but surely that isn’t always the case.”

“It’s not as big a deal as you would think,” Dean explains. “I mean, at first it is. The police come in, they ask you a bunch of questions, the usual deal. But then they take a closer look at the bodies, and when you find shit like claws and fangs, well, any reasonable person would find an excuse to look the other way.” He chews contemplatively. “Obviously some of the brighter ones start to notice when you show up at crime scenes a little too often for comfort. But they also notice the murders stop when you get to the real monsters, so, you know, it usually works out. Anyway, you get good at getting real scarce long before the cops show up. What happened the other night wasn’t business. It was bad luck.”

“So that’s it?” Castiel asks. “Stripping by day, hunting by night?”

“Sometimes the other way around,” Dean says, grinning.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Why are you being so difficult?”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, putting on his best innocent face.

“You really expect me to believe you’re this perfectly normal well-adjusted guy who works at a strip club and just happens to fight monsters?”

“Well, yeah, because it’s the truth.” Dean shrugs, frowning. “Look, not that I don’t appreciate the fact that you’ve been paying literally all of my bills for going on three months. All things considered, you’ve been a pretty great client. You don’t push my boundaries, not my physical ones, anyway. And you’re actually kinda fun to talk to when you’re not trying to get a heartbreaking story from me. But here’s your problem, all right?” Dean sighs. “You swept in with your fancy clothes and your money and convinced yourself that you were gonna save me. But I don’t need saving. It’s a nice sentiment, but get over yourself, dude.” His tosses his clean rib onto the plate, where it lands with a small clang as Dean crosses his arms.

For a few minutes, they alternate between staring at one another and pushing their food around on their plates. Eventually, Dean does ask for another plate of meat. When the food arrives, though, he cuts his brisket and onions in silence.

Castiel had wanted this to be a good date, to prove that he’s genuinely interested in and cares about Dean. He had thought that the last few weeks had proved something of his sincerity, and he’s trying, really. So takes a sip of his iced tea and tries again.

“How do people even learn about this stuff?” he asks conspiratorily.

Dean perks up a little.

“Oh, there’s a whole network of hunters. Like Bobby, who’s basically been a father to me and Sam, is the go-to guy for all the lore.” Dean smiles fondly as he speaks. Castiel makes a mental note and keeps listening. “He has a whole house full of books and relics and God knows what else. Total nerd, you’d love him.” Dean pauses to chew for a second. “And if Bobby doesn’t know, there’s always the internet.”

“What, you just google ‘how to kill monster lurking under small child’s bed’?” Castiel scoffs.

“Don’t antagonize me,” Dean says, gesturing sharply at Castiel with a rib. “Well, actually, I’ve run into a few monsters in closets, but never one under a bed. Not enough room.”

“ _Dean._ ”

“What? I was being serious.” Dean grins and shakes his head. “But yeah, there _is_ a lot of junk on the internet. I mean, that’s true for anything, not just mythology. Still, you can find some helpful stuff long as you know where to look.”

“So if I wanted to.” Castiel pauses to swallow his bite of food. “You know, learn more.”

“Nuh uh, dude,” Dean shakes his head. “No way. I know what you’re thinking, and you should just stay out of it. I know my life must seem pretty glamorous, and really, I can’t blame you for being jealous,” he says, winking. “But this shit is still extremely dangerous. You can’t just pick it up like learning guitar on the weekends or listening to Spanish tapes in the car. It takes practice and dedication and time that you probably don’t have.” Castiel nods slowly and rubs his hand against his jaw.

“As much as you might think you know about me, Dean, you really don’t know much.” Castiel smiles a little, revealing a sliver of teeth. “My company exists fine on its own most of the time. I oversee everything, but I primarily have people below me who manage the day to day operations, and they can call if they need something. Why not dedicate myself to something else, where it’s literally a matter of life and death?” Castiel shrugs and takes a bite of the last pickle on his plate. “Besides, if I have time to take phone calls from Singapore at three a.m., I have time to help.”

Dean smiles and sighs. “This is a terrible, awful idea,” he says, “but whatever, Cas. As long as you’re buying me banana pudding.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, smiling.


	4. Chapter 4

They fall back into their usual routine so easily that Castiel wonders if their dinner was really a date at all. He likes to think their conversation comes a little easier, now, and that Dean’s dancing has become more enthusiastic than before, but he can’t quite decide if he’s being objective or is just overwhelmed by his own wishful thinking.

He decides he’s done enough prying, though, so he resolves to wait for Dean to make the next move, whatever that might be.

When Castiel comes in one night and finds Dean wearing a wicked little grin, he can’t help but get his hopes up.

Dean smiles, takes him by the hand, and leads him to the Chapel. They don’t talk much this time, but Dean keeps smiling. Castiel tries not get nervous.

Once Cas is seated, Dean starts slow, even slower than usual. He’s moving in half time to the music and it makes Cas dizzy when Dean walks to the other side of the room and drops to his knees. It’s a slow crawl toward him, all rolling shoulders and exaggerated back, and by the time Dean reaches his crotch, nosing at the inside of his thigh, Castiel feels like he might pass out. It only lasts a second, though, because then Dean is standing up and giving Cas the full view of his body, his dick barely contained by the flimsy thong. Cas takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes for a minute, trying to collect himself

When he finally looks, Dean is still moving too slow for the music, punctuating every other beat with a small thrust of his hips. It takes every ounce of restraint for Cas to hold back; his palms practically ache with the desire to reach forward, to run his hands over Dean’s thighs and his thumb over his cheek.

For his part, Dean seems at least mildly affected. He steps forward and presses Castiel’s face to his chest briefly before sinking, turning around, and sliding back up so that his back touches Castiel’s chest.

“Is that a,” Castiel coughs, “is that a ghost?” It is just now occurring to Castiel that it’s nearly Halloween and Dean isn’t wearing a costume, but his dick definitely is. What he thought was just a white bikini very clearly has eyes drawn on, eyes which Castiel didn’t see before Dean’s own erection made an appearance sometime between the crawling and the grinding.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean says casually. “The dead aren’t the only things that get to rise on All Hallow’s Eve.”

Cas groans, leaning his head against the back of his chair. Dean laughs and presses harder against him.

“Anyway,” Dean continues, “speaking of ghosts. So, I have this thing I have to do when I get off.” Cas can feel Dean’s laughter reverberate against his chest. “I mean, when I get off work,” Dean amends, running a hand over the back of Cas’ neck. Cas glares down at him, but his face is twitching as he tries to suppress a smile. “For real, though, there’s a salt and burn that needs doing, and I was wondering if you wanna tag along. You know, spread your wings as a hunter and all that.”

“Salt and burn?” Cas repeats. He forgets himself for a moment and trails his hands over Dean’s ribs.

“Yeah, it’s what we call a ghost hunt. When spirits have something still tying them to the world, eventually they get angry. Start damaging property, sometimes damaging people. Getting rid of them is just a matter of tracking down whatever physical remains are allowing them to stay anchored here, then toss on some salt and throw a match and voila. Problem solved. About as simple as it gets, really.” Dean stands and smiles a little.

Truth be told, Cas isn’t sure he has all the skill to jump into this, but damned if he’s letting Dean know that.

“I would be delighted to join you,” he says instead.

“Great,” Dean says, his predatory grin a little terrifying as he sinks into a split.

\--

A couple of hours later, Castiel is sitting at a twenty-four-hour café on the other side of town that Dean had suggested. Cas brought his laptop, like Dean asked, and by the time Dean walks in, he’s already clicking away.

“So,” Cas says, taking a bite of pizza, “based on what you told me about the haunting, I think it might be the children’s father.”

Dean smiles as he pulls out a chair and sits down.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” Castiel nods resolutely and finishes off his crust before turning his screen toward Dean. “See? William Maddox, died six months ago in state custody. Hadn’t seen his children in over a year. Makes sense that he’d haunt them, right?”

“Yeah, sure does.”

“So what’s the next step?” Cas asks, his voice a little thin.

“You’ve paid your tab, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, follow me.” And Cas does, out into the dimly lit parking lot and to Dean’s trunk, which pops open to reveal a veritable arsenal. Dean ducks down and reaches toward the back, then stands up and hands Cas a shovel before turning and walking away from the lot.

For a moment Castiel just stands there, shovel in hand.

“Dean! Wait! Won’t we get towed if we leave the premises?” Castiel pauses for a moment and reconsiders. “You’re going to leave a car full of _weapons_ in a restaurant parking lot?”

Whether Dean is too far head to hear or is just ignoring him Cas doesn’t know, but he follows anyway. Within five minutes they reach a chainlink fence; Dean vaults over with practiced ease and Castiel ungracefully tries to follow suit, catching his belt loop on the top of a link. He has to spend a minute correcting himself, but before long he’s following Dean as he scans the rows of graves.

“Okay, so this cemetery is getting kind of full and they’re having to squeeze ‘em in. Keep an eye out. The bigger the dirt pile, the fresher the grave.” Cas nods. He throws his shovel over his shoulder, trying to emulate Dean’s casual stroll. After a couple of minutes, Dean’s flashlight beam pauses on a headstone and he plants the shovel in the ground.

“All right, just gotta dig him up and light him up. Piece of pie.” Dean steps on the shovel and lifts the first scoop of dirt out, gesturing for Cas to step in front of him. Cas does as instructed and is surprised at the ease with which he’s able to dig up the loose dirt.

It takes all of about sixty seconds for Cas to amend his opinion. It turns out days spent sitting in meetings and jogging casually for exercise haven’t prepared him for the repetitive motion of exhuming corpses. Before long, he’s breathing hard and his arms are burning.

Just when he thinks he can’t stand it for another second, Dean says, “All right, switch.”

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Cas groans.

The switch off on digging for an hour or so. Cas pretends not to notice that Dean is giving him shorter shifts.

Still, by the time his shovel hits the solid wood of the coffin, Cas exhausted and covered in sweat and dirt. He pauses, leaning on his shovel, and enjoys the sudden cold breeze.

When he looks up, every exhalation is visible in the cold air. He puzzles over it -- it’s only October, it shouldn’t be this cold yet -- and that’s when he sees something flicker on the edge of his vision. His gaze snaps to the offending spot, but there’s nothing there besides empty space and crude tombstones.

 _Probably nothing,_ Cas tells himself. _Stop being paranoid._

“Oh, yeah,” Dean says, casually. “Should have told you. Sometimes they get angry when they figure out what you’re planning.”

Cas whips around to glare at Dean, but it winds up more as a wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare. “ _What._ ”

“Yeah, they like to manifest right about now and try to put a stop to the gravedigging. Usually by trying to put the digger into a grave.” Dean is grinning as though the showdown with mortality is totally worth it for the opportunity to crack jokes.

Cas disagrees, but all that comes out when he tries to articulate his thoughts is another “What.”

“What?” Dean asks innocently.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Nope,” Dean says, planting his shovel in the ground and leaning on the handle. “Feel that temperature drop? Surefire sign a ghost is nearby. Not that you need to pay that much attention when the ghost is standing a few yards away.” Dean gestures vaguely to a point somewhere over Cas’ right shoulder.

Cas really wants to believe that this is just part of Dean’s hoke, but he turns around to face whatever is waiting for them in the darkness.

To his horror, there’s a man standing there, dressed in white scrubs, his image flickering in and out. His expression flickers, too, between sadness and rage.

“What the fuck,” Cas breathes.

“Yeah, we might want to do something before he gets angry enough to manifest completely enough to come murder us,” Dean suggests.

Cas turns to back him, wide-eyed. “What the _fuck._ ”

“Pop quiz!” Dean says cheerfully. “How can we protect ourselves from the vengeful spirit long enough to dig up his bones?” Dean sounds amused, but he quickly plucks his shovel from the ground and jumps back into the grave to hep pry the coffin open.

“Are you serious,” Cas says, staring at Dean uselessly. His brain is short circuiting, he’s sure of it.

“Yeah. Think quick. He’s barely even see-through now. Didn’t you do your research?”

“Dean, is this really the time to be testing the skills I’ve literally only been practicing for _a few hours?_ ” Castiel’s voice comes out high and thin.

“Sounds like a bunch of excuses to me,” Dean says.

“ _Dean._ ”

“Oh, fine. Here,” Dean says, pausing his work long enough to pull a cylindrical container from his jacket pocket and toss it to Cas.

“Salt?” Cas asks as he holds it up, toward the moonlight. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Nah, keeps the spirits away. If you put a ring around the grave, it should buy us enough time to finish digging.”

“ _Should?_ ” Cas asks, still mostly incredulous.

Dean shrugs. “Make sure it’s a good circle.”

Castiel tries. He scrambles out of the grave and tries to open the container without spilling the precious contents, then lays the salt in a thick curved line around them, grave and all. He feels ridiculous but then the circle is finished and he’s standing and then he’s facing an actual ghost, a fully grown man who is mostly transparent and may or may not be real but is certainly not the friendly Casper type.

It comes closer, and Cas is almost touched by its expression. It looks so lonely and mournful.

Dean climbs out of the grave to stand beside Cas, taking the container of salt and emptying the rest of the contents into the coffin before he hands Cas a book of matches.

“Sorry, pal. Rest in peace.” Dean says, waving at the ghost.

Castiel breaks six matches before he gets one lit.

“You totally ruined the moment,” Dean says.

“I’m sorry that in this life and death scenario a flair for the dramatic wasn’t my top priority,” Cas replies, dropping the match. He watches the flames crawl up the ghost’s legs, listens to it scream.

“What the hell,” Castiel says.

Dean picks up his shovel and claps Cas on his shoulder genially.

“All right, this time I owe _you_ dinner,” Dean says as he heads back toward the car.

\--

They pick a different place to eat dinner. Castiel thinks it doesn’t matter, because he’s not really hungry after that, but Dean insists that they can’t go back to the place right by the cemetery. They wind up at a diner on the freeway.

“This all right?” Dean asks as they get out of the car. “Not quite as fancy as you’re used to.”

Castiel slows a little as he looks down at himself. Every visible inch of skin and clothing seems to be covered in grime and a fine sheen of sweat. “I’m not quite as fancy as I’m used to,” he admits.

“Knew you were dirtier than you let on,” Dean says, winking as he holds the door open for Castiel. Before Cas can sputter out a response, the host is welcoming them and leading them to a booth.

Castiel is relieved that lighting is dim enough to hide the dirt. And, well, based on the look of some of the other clientele, they might not be too out of place even if someone _did_ notice.

“So what do you make of that experience, cupcake?” Dean asks once they’re seated, skimming the menu and occasionally flicking his gaze up at Cas.

“I didn't think it would involve so much manual labor,” Cas huffs, rubbing at a smudge on the side of his nose. He half-heartedly sips at his iced tea and watches as Dean seems to come to a decision. He orders a burger with the works, bacon, grilled onions, extra cheese. Cas raises his eyebrows.

“My mom’s been on a health food bender for years, gotta get my kicks where I can.”

Cas orders a veggie burger with sweet potato fries.

After the waiter walks away, Dean says, “I know I freaked you out back there, and I really am sorry about that, but I needed to show you that hunting’s not something you can just fall right into. It takes practice, just like anything else you wanna be really good at. If this is something you really want to do, I need to know you’re serious about it.”

“ _You’re_ asking _me_ if _I’m_ serious?” Cas balks.

“Well, fair enough.” Dean laughs. “But that salt and burn really was one of the easy ones. You need to know what you’re getting yourself into. How about I give you The Talk, and then you decide if you’re still interested?” Dean emphasizes the words in a way that makes Cas actually visualize capital letters.

“‘The Talk?’”

“Yeah, like The Birds and the Bees: Badass Edition.”

“I...what.” Cas’ brow furrows as he sinks lower into the booth.

“You know, like. When a shapeshifter loves someone very much….well, let me tell you, it gets messy real quick.” Dean smiles, lifting his eyebrows comically as he munches on a tortilla chip.

“I’m not sure I want any more details.”

“Well, you’ve gotta be prepared for details, and to do a ton of research. You can’t always just do the couple hours we did today. Sometimes it takes days or weeks of research to find the right spirit, or a history of weird events or disappearances. Every case is different.” Dean pauses to gauge Castiel’s reaction. Cas stares at him impassively and gestures for him to continue, though he has to wait a bit longer while the waiter sets their plates down.

“There are some basics, though: salt, silver, holy water,” Dean continues. “Stuff that has a wide variety of uses. But beyond that, you’ve still gotta have a huge skillset. And I’m not just talking knowledge, either, but physical stuff as well.” He starts ticking things off on his fingers as he speaks. “You have to have the strength to dig a grave, the endurance to run and fight for long stretches. You need to be able to use guns, knives, improvised weapons. You need be to able to paint devil's traps and other protective symbols.”

“Protective symbols?”

“Yeah, there are all sorts of sigils used to keep spooky things out or in,” Dean says. He pauses for dramatic effect. “Some of them require human blood.”

When Cas finishes choking on his homemade lentil and carrot patty, Dean continues.

“You need to be okay with lying and know how to do it convincingly, to be a pastor or a repairman or just a friend to someone scared and alone. If it’s serious enough to risk it, sometimes you gotta pretend to be FBI. Whatever you need to get the job done, but not so reckless that it comes back to bite you. But you also need to really care about what you do, ‘cause otherwise it can destroy you. The reason is important. Probably the most important thing, actually. I’ve known some hunters who were just out for revenge, and it's a dark path that never leads anywhere good. So think long and hard about why you wanna do this. And think about whether you _can_ do this, whether you can compartmentalize and keep this stuff from seeping into the rest of your life and taking it over. It’s hard. Some people manage it, but more don’t. You have to know there’s risk involved. Physically. Mentally. You okay with that?” 

Castiel chews quietly while he mulls over his response. If he’s honest with himself, he has to admit that it’s more than he expected, and he’s a little worried about his ability to meet some of the physical demands, if nothing else. But the concept fills him with a sense of profound purpose that he can’t ignore.

“Yes,” he finally says.

Dean looks surprised at his frankness. “And I gotta ask, dude. Why do you wanna do this?”

"Now that I know, I have a duty to help,” Cas says simply.

“But why _you_?”

“Well, I’ve always thought I should share what I have, help my community. But this is a problem that can’t be fixed with money. I know I don’t have much experience with this, but from what you’re telling me, hunters are spread so thin that every last one is incredibly important. The job needs to be done, but there are precious few people doing it. It sounds to me like it’s you or it’s no one.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Well, now it’s me or it’s no one.”

“Well, you and me or no one,” Dean says, grinning, and Cas tries not to blush.

After that, Dean spends half an hour talking about the specifics, about what creatures are sensitive to silver, the components of goofer dust, how long the average vampire sleeps. He even recites an entire exorcism at one point, and Cas almost asks if he should be taking notes.

“So, what do you think?” Dean asks when he’s finished.

“I think I liked our first date better,” Cas groans, leaning his head on his folded arms.

Dean laughs but doesn’t deny it. He just keeps eating, and Cas looks up to watch as the grease from his burger drips over his hands.

Cas strongly suspects that this was their second date.

\--

Castiel is pleasantly surprised when he checks his phone after a meeting the following Wednesday. There’s a text from Dean, _Gun range 2nite?_

Cas smiles and painstakingly types out his response. _I’m available after 7._

_U had me @ available ;)_

Cas spends the next six hours agonizing over the winky face.

When Dean arrives at the range that evening, the first words out of his mouth are, “You’re such a weirdo.”

“What?” Cas asks, a little too loud. He reluctantly moves the earmuffs he’d only just managed to get comfortably placed.

“Typing out these formal texts like you’re writing business emails,” Dean laughs. “You can relax around me. I promise not to judge you for using bee emojis.”

“Bee emojis?” Cas asks suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

“Gimme your phone,” Dean says and motions for Cas to look at the screen with him. “See? Bees.”

Cas didn’t even realize he had a whole second keyboard full of various animal and people shapes, all sorts of things he can use to ease the burden of written communication. He sends a few experimental texts to Dean and Gabe that are mostly just whales, bees, and sunflowers.

“Okay, buddy, now that you’ve discovered the joy of emojis, let’s get this show on the road,” Dean says. He waits for Cas to pocket his phone and pull his earmuffs back on before giving him a small handgun and moving around to put him in position.

“First things first. Make sure you have a firm grip, like this,” he says, adjusting Cas’ hands. “Don’t try and do that one-handed thing. That only works on TV -- you do it in real life and you’ll hurt yourself or worse. Now, get your feet like mine.” Cas nods and adjusts his stance so that one foot is slightly in front of the other and they’re at hips’ width. The position forces him to lean forward, and when Dean’s arms come around his shoulders, his hands snaking down Cas’ arms, he has to fight a very strong urge to lean back into him.

“Now, make sure you inhale while you aim,” Dean says once he’s got his hand around Cas’, his index finger covering Cas’ on the trigger. He takes a deep breath and Cas follows suit, letting his shoulders expand against Dean’s chest.

“And exhale when you fire.” Dean lets out a long breath and squeezes. The shot fires and Cas can’t tell how much of it was him and how much of it was Dean, but it hits near enough to the center of the target that, considering his preoccupation with Dean against his back, he considers it a success.

Dean pulls away, smiling.

“See? No problem. Now, let’s see what you can do on your own,” he says.

Cas takes another deep breath and fires, glancing off the edge of the target. He’s got his work cut out for him.

By the time they finish at the range several hours later, Cas’ aim has improved substantially. Still, he knows he needs a lot more practice before he can fire accurately standing still in the well-lit range, let alone while on a hunt, where he’ll likely be almost constantly mobile and (if the salt and burn was anything to go by) doing shit in the dead of night. He expresses his discouragement, but Dean just claps him on the shoulder encouragingly.

“If it makes you feel better,” Dean says, “You’re improving a hell of a lot quicker than my 17-year-old self did.”

Cas grumbles but accepts the compliment. If practicing means he’s going to be spending more time with Dean, maybe it won’t be that bad.

\--

Cas is sitting at his desk the next day when he gets a text from Dean.

_Off work @ 2. Range 2day?_

Cas’ arms are still sore from the previous day, but he texts back without hesitation.

_I’ll be there at 3._

He spends the rest of the morning jittery with anticipation, but it fuels his productivity. He responds to emails with such brutal efficiency that by the time he heads out around two, he doesn’t even really feel that guilty about leaving early.

Still, despite Cas’ high energy, today’s bit of training is a bit less successful in terms of actual progress. His arms are sore and there’s a little ache in his left elbow from keeping it locked -- he knows he shouldn’t do it, but fighting the instinct is hard. When he finally confesses his discomfort, though, Dean is back to curling around him with the pretense of helping him aim, so hey, it isn’t a total waste.

After a couple hours, Dean says, “What do you say we call it a day for now? Plenty of other stuff to learn while your arms recover.”

Cas agrees, even though he doubts those other things will be quite as up close and personal as learning to shoot.

\--

Cas’ headaches have been kind enough to stay at a manageable level, so the following Sunday finds him in Dean’s garage at his workbench, very carefully disassembling shotgun shells.

“Just peel up the crimp, that’s it, and dump the pellets. Refill with salt, gently, _gently_ hammer it shut. See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“I think you might be understating the risk associated with this activity.”

“Hey, I’ve been doing it for years! Not an injury yet.” Castiel glares at Dean and gingerly taps the hammer one last time to seal the shell.

It’s far less taxing than learning to shoot, and the repetitive nature of it is actually kind of soothing. This, at least, is something Cas can pick up without much practice, since it involves exactly the sort of attention to detail he’s used to, rather than hand-eye coordination.

Dean is thrilled to learn this because, as he’s happy to share, he finds it totally boring. He jumps at the opportunity to encourage Cas’ enjoyment of it.

Which is the reason Cas skips out of work a little early Monday to run an errand, and when he gets home that evening, he shoots off a text to Dean: _I’ve purchased a shotgun and intend to assemble further salt rounds per your instructions._

Dean must be at work, because it takes a few hours for his response to come through: _Remember to keep a lite touch and good control. I know u have a problem with that sometimes, so...;)_

 

Cas rolls his eyes and opts to ignore him, but another text comes through soon enough: _Want 2 get 2gether 2nite? More to hunting than guns u know._

Cas types out a quick, _All right. When?_

When the response comes back _Idk, nowish?_ , he grins and heads for the door, tapping back an _I’m on my way now_ before he starts up his car.

They spend the entirety of that evening going over lore, pausing only long enough to order some pizza before all the delivery places close. Dean shows Cas the journal his mom kept as a teenager, the things she saw and the things her parents fought. He explains how demons aren’t that common, so people tend to get spooked by them the worst, but they’re not actually too difficult to handle. He talks about the things he’s fought and killed, though Cas still doesn’t think of Dean as a killer. Even so, he’s impressed by the sheer variety of monsters out there, and tells Dean so.

“Yeah, it’s pretty crazy,” Dean agrees, running his fingertips over a detailed sketch of a werewolf. The journal is full of them, little ballpoint pen and pencil sketches of monsters, sigils, various apocrypha. They vary in size and detail, but they’re uniformly striking.

“My mom’s kind of amazing,” Dean says. Cas watches as crinkles form around Dean’s eyes. He marvels at how much he clearly loves his mother, and wonders how he ever doubted that Dean had anything but a happy childhood. Castiel fails to resist his urge to lay his hand over Dean’s, but quickly draws it back. Dean looks at him and, in a rare moment of stoicism, his face gives nothing away.

Then he’s smiling and helping Cas to his feet.

“Okay, buddy. I’ve got some homework for ya. Pick a monster, any monster, and spend a day looking up everything you can. I expect a full report by Thursday.” Cas gives a short nod and lets his hand linger in Dean’s for a few seconds past what’s socially acceptable, but if Dean notices, he doesn’t say anything.

\--

When Dean gets off work the next day, he finds a text from Cas waiting for him: 

_I spent the past six hours researching wendigo and feel sufficiently educated._

The bees have become a barometer of Cas’ enthusiasm, and Dean smiles every time he sees them. He texts back: _Making good use of ur 9 to 5 I see_

The response comes quickly and Dean laughs out loud when he reads it: _I do what I want._ He can picture the squinty face Cas made as he typed it, can imagine the petulant way he’d say it out loud.

He’s pretty sure he’s corrupting Cas, pulling him away from the business that was his entire life before he started coming to the club. He feels bad about that and tries to not feel selfish about it by telling himself it’s because Cas was right, hunters are spread pretty thin and they can use all the help they can get.

Then again, Cas is a big boy. He can make his own decisions. Dean texts, _U free 2day?_

It isn’t the 5 part of Cas’ 9 to 5 yet, but Cas texts back, _Yes, of course._

Dean replies, _Cool. My place in 1hr?_

_I’ll be there._

When Cas arrives, Dean greets him as casually as possible, testing the waters. “Sorry to keep tearing you away from your cushy desk job,” he says, only half joking, but of course Cas takes him seriously, looks at him with concern as they sit down on the couch.

“It’s strange,” Cas says. “I feel like we’re settling into a routine, like when we were at the club. Except now, we’re...” He gestures vaguely to Dean’s home at large. “You know. It’s not that I’m abandoning my job, it’s simply, well. I can feel my priorities shifting.” 

He’s so damned sincere, just like always, that Dean feels his guilt start to melt away. He decides to reward Cas by showing him one of his own creations, going to grab his favorite gadget from a drawer and handing it over.

“Check it out,” he says. “EMF meter. Made it myself.”

“How is this even real?” Cas asks, examining the monstrosity in his hand. “It seems like something out of a B horror movie.”

Dean laughs. “We kinda live in a B horror movie.”

“You’re going to show me how it works, aren’t you?”

Dean grins.

Cas sighs dramatically as Dean flips the Walkman over and pulls out the batteries. He watches as Dean plucks out the wires and reroutes them, staring intently as Dean sets up the circuits. Dean demonstrates how to attach the antenna, and Cas nods to confirm he’s been paying attention.

“Now,” Dean says as he closes the case back up, “these things are only so reliable. Since they pick up all sorts of electric waves, they don’t always work great around power lines or in, say, a server room.”

Cas frowns like he’s displeased with that, humming thoughtfully but not commenting any further when Dean sets the meter back in its place in the drawer.

“Anyway, show me the results of your research,” Dean says, and Cas’ eyes light up. He spends half an hour proudly talking about wendigos and their history and weaknesses and every possible fact about them. Dean is pretty impressed, and says so, because Cas was thorough and seems to be taking every aspect of the job as seriously as he should. 

When Cas finally gets to the end of his dossier, Dean says, “Great. This is really great work, Cas.”

“Thank you, Dean,”

“And just in time, too. I have a hunt for us.”

“A wendigo? Here? In the city?” Cas’ lack of trepidation makes Dean’s stomach flip.

“Actually, no. We’re pretty sure it’s a skinwalker.”

“Could you not have, I don’t know, told me that? So I researched something more useful?” Cas asks, unimpressed.

“Ah, c’mon.” Dean shrugs. “The knowledge is good to have. Now you get to learn about _two_ things!”

Cas rolls his eyes. Still, he’s clearly interested when he says, “Fine. Show me what you have.”

“Okay, so you know about the tunnels under the college, right?” Dean starts. He pauses at Cas’ bewildered look. “Oh. Okay, well, a lot of the buildings are connected underground by service tunnels for the infrastructure that supports the school, partially because a lot of the campus was built to also serve as fallout shelters. So even though we’re not exactly on the brink of nuclear war anymore, all those tunnels are still there. Good so far?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, and so you can imagine, kids try and go down there every now and then. They always get in a shitload of trouble - threatened with expulsion, spooky guards chasing them off, stuff like that. So you know, there’s a bit of myth surrounding them anyway, but usually any stories that crop up are a load of bullshit.”

“But not this time,” Cas says.

“Not this time,” Dean agrees. He shows Cas the recent reports of people being injured around the tunnel entrances with what look like animal bites, but no one can ever find whatever bit them.

“So I’m thinking it’s probably a skinwalker,” he says, and goes on to explain how they shift back and forth between human and animal form, so the culprit would be able to just go back to their human form to avoid being caught. “So anyway, all we gotta do is find the skinwalker’s hideout and see what the deal is,” he concludes.

Cas raises an eyebrow like, _See what the deal is?_

“Well, _yeah._ I’m not gonna put a bullet into someone if I don’t need to, especially since there haven’t even been any deaths so far, you know?” Dean shrugs. “Just ‘cause someone’s a monster doesn’t necessarily mean they’re, you know. A monster.”

“I’m not sure I understand the distinction you’re making,” Cas says, squinting.

Still, Dean is pretty sure Cas is giving him crap about his less than eloquent explanation, not about the idea of being compassionate, so he says, “Just trust me on this.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replies, all earnest.

Dean swears the heat creeping up his neck is unrelated.


	5. Chapter 5

They wait in a coffee shop near campus until after dark, when Dean knows classes are done for the day and the campus cops are doing their rounds in another area.

They sneak into the tunnels near the location of the most recent attack, under the main building. They wander around for over an hour without really seeing anything but the expected wiring and plumbing; Cas is exhausted from the stagnant underground heat and Dean is just saying “Maybe we should call it a--” when they round a corner right into a pissed-off looking guy in a maintenance uniform.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing down here?”

“Shit, sorry, sir,” Dean says. “We’re just here on a dare, I swear we don’t mean any harm.” Even as he says it, he’s thinking he probably looks too old to be a college kid, and Cas _definitely_ looks too old to be a college kid.

“Aren’t you a little old to be college kids?” the guys says, because apparently he also has mind reading capabilities.

“I thought your institution was supposed to be accepting of non-traditional students,” Cas deadpans, and Dean manages to choke down his laughter long enough for the guy to lead them out and sternly warn them not to come back.

After that, they finally call it a night. They both go to work the following day, but Cas gets off before Dean, so when Dean finally grabs his phone from his locker in the early hours of the morning, he has eight missed calls, eleven texts, and a couple voicemails from Cas.

He listens to the voicemails first because they make him nervous. 

“Dean, I found something. I need to speak with you urgently,” Cas says over the static. Dean calls him back immediately, and that’s how Cas ends up at his place for the second day in a row.

It turns out Cas did research at work again. He explains that he found an article about an actual death on campus, and, “Granted, it’s a few years back and it’s not an animal attack like what we’re seeing now - it was an electrical accident. But the deceased looks quite familiar,” he says, pointing to an obituary photo of a man who looks just like the maintenance worker that chased them out the night before.

“Shit. Not a skinwalker, then,” Dean says.

“Shapeshifter,” Cas agrees.

“That’s so weird, though. I haven’t heard of one that turns into animals _and_ humans.”

“But it’s theoretically possible, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean says, frowning as he chews his lip. “Well, guess we’ve got our work cut out for us tonight.”

Cas smiles. “I guess so.”

\--

An hour and half later, they’ve got the guy cornered. It’s not easy and it hasn’t been fun - the shifter has been attempting to throw them off, using its superior knowledge of the tunnels to its advantage. They keep tracking down sources of all manner of sounds -- clanging pipes, buzzing electric currents, rushing water -- all to no avail. Fifteen minutes in, the shifter had set off an alarm system Dean had no idea even existed, so they’ve spent over an hour working their way deeper and deeper into the tunnels while the emergency lights strobed on and off, bathing them alternately in bright red and in pure darkness, and the screeching sirens echoed endlessly in the confined space. This whole damn hunt is giving him a headache.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” the shifter says, rather unconvincingly.

“Okay, then an explanation would be nice,” Dean says, gesturing with his machete.

“I’m going to shift back into my own form, okay?” it says before changing seamlessly into a young woman in her early twenties. 

“You don’t need to shed your skin?” Dean asks, a little awed.

“No. Not all of us do,” she explains, awkwardly swaying.

Dean raises his eyebrows, waiting for more explanation. She sighs. “My name is Maria, all right? I’m a student here. I’m not trying to kill anyone - I swear,” she says quickly at Cas’ narrowed eyes. “I mean, they’re my classmates, for god’s sake, if not my friends.”

“And what about your, ah, cover?” Dean asks, looking pointedly at the oversized jumpsuit she’s still wearing.

“He died long before my time.” She shrugs. “Anyway, some of the fraternities have been hazing freshman by locking them in the tunnels. And like, first of all, the kids are scared shitless. And second, they could legit get in trouble for being here, you know? Even though they’re the victims because they’re under so much pressure not tell about the hazing. That’s messed up, right? How could I just stand by and let that happen?”

Dean finds the kid’s explanation surprisingly satisfactory. He nods, lowering his machete and looking over at Cas to gauge his reaction, only to find Cas leaning heavily against the wall, rubbing his temple with his free hand, jaw clenched tight. Even in the awful lighting, Dean can tell Cas isn’t doing so well. He returns Dean’s worried gaze with a look that pretty clearly says, _Please get this over with so we can get the hell out of here._ Dean’s chest tightens involuntarily.

“Anyway, it’s not like the people doing it deserve to _die_ or something. I just wanted to scare them off,” Maria concludes, apparently oblivious to their silent conversation.

“Well, I’m glad that’s all,” Dean says, after a long moment and a level stare.

“You’re really gonna let me go?”

“I mean, you should probably, you know, stop attacking people. For your own good. Eventually, you’re gonna draw attention from other hunters, and a lot of them are a little more ‘shoot first, ask questions later’,” Dean says, smiling wryly and lifting one shoulder in a lazy shrug.

“Okay.” Maria smiles, still awkward. “Deal, as long as you actually help me figure out this magical alternative you seem to think exists.”

“I know just the guy, don’t worry about it,” Dean says. He makes a mental note to get Benny on the case, because certainly Andrea’s job in student services was gonna come in handy eventually. “Let’s get you back to your dorm.”

They make their way back out of the tunnels, making a quick stop to disarm the alarm system, Maria leading the way the whole time. Dean is pretty sure she doesn’t need their protection, but they escort her back to her dorm anyway. As soon as Maria has swiped her ID and disappeared up the stairs, Cas doubles over and vomits in the bushes. 

“Holy shit, dude, are you okay?” Dean says, moving to run a soothing hand over Cas’ back.

“Ugh,” Cas gets out between dry heaves. “It must have been all the lights and sounds from the alarm system. My head,” he grimaces and leans against a lamp post, “my head is killing me.”

“Okay, how about we get you back home stat?”

“My car--”

“We’ll deal with it later. Let’s just get you some rest.”

Dean finally takes his hand back when Cas stands upright.

“Thank you, I’d appreciate it.”

Dean insists on helping Cas up to his apartment and tries very hard not to offer to tuck him in. When Cas closes the door with a weak smile and quiet “Good night,” Dean’s chest tightens again. The hunt went well -- he should be relieved -- but the sight of Cas like that makes Dean forget all about it.

\--

By the time he gets back to his apartment, Cas doesn’t have the energy or willpower to do anything but collapse into bed. His mouth tastes awful and his clothes are covered in grime from the hunt, but he weighs it against the headache that’s so bad his ears are ringing and the nausea that threatens to have him heaving up bile and feels pretty justified in laying down on top of the covers fully clothed and letting unconsciousness take him.

He falls asleep almost immediately. When he wakes up, halfway through a dream about stars imploding in a riot of light and color and sound, he doesn’t feel much better.

When he finally works up the motivation to move enough to grab his phone from where he had tossed it the night before, he has a host of missed text messages from Dean: _Sry about last nite those tunnels r the worst_ and _I should have realized I’m rly sorry_ and _Let me know if u need anything_ and _I kno ur probably asleep still but hope ur doing ok_. He doesn’t have the energy to type out a long text reassuring Dean that Cas’ current state isn’t his fault, so he chooses only to address the most recent message, responding with a quick _I’ll live._ After a moment, he sends another: _Thank you._ He hopes his sincerity comes through even without the use of emojis.

He manages to drag himself into the shower, the hot water soothing his tired muscles and seeming to help dampen the rest of his pain to a dull ache. By the time he’s done drying off and getting dressed, he has another text message from Dean: _Hey I know ur probably not up to research or w/e but we could just hang out?_

Cas smiles as he taps out his response. _I think I could manage that. What did you have in mind?_

Dean’s reply comes when Cas is in the middle of making himself a smoothie, hoping vaguely he’ll be able to stomach it. _Idk star wars marathon?_

_I haven’t seen Star Wars, but I would be willing to give it a shot._

Cas can practically hear Dean’s incredulity through the text that comes back as he’s drinking his lunch: _What! Cant believe u havent seen star wars!!!!!_

Cas smiles in spite of himself and shoots back: _I don’t see why you’re having such a hard time lieving it. Plenty of people simply have not n to the movies as much as you have. This seems to me like the perfect opportunity for you to  the one to introduce me to this cultural cornerstore._

_Ugh. Show up whenever u nerd. Ill BEE here. Well get pizza._

_Ill take that as a yes._

Cas shows up at Dean’s place at a quarter to noon bearing a six-pack. He still has lingering pain running in a band around his head, but at least his face is only aching from grinning the whole way there.

Dean is all business when he opens the door, ushering Cas in and planting him in front of the TV while he puts the drinks in the fridge. Other than the unconvincing response Dean had given when Cas had asked why they were starting with the fourth movie in the series (“This is the first movie in the series. Just this and Episodes V and VI. Just those three movies. They never got around to making the prequels. What a shame.”), they don’t speak another word to each other until the end of Episode IV.

“So,” Dean says, “what do you think so far?”

Dean waits patiently while Cas takes the time to consider his response. “Leia is by far my favorite character.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” Dean plays at skepticism, but Cas can sense his approval in the way a smile is playing at the corners of his mouth.

“She’s the only one who seems to have her shit together,” Cas says simply.

Dean laughs. “Well, can’t argue with that.”

Dean seems to be done with his questioning for the time being. He stands to switch to the next disc before settling back onto the couch next to Cas. They lapse back into silence until the end of Episode V, when Dean does another check-in.

“Why is everyone in this film so incompetent?” Cas asks. He feels it’s a reasonable question. He’s spent several hours now watching dozens of stormtroopers make shots so wide it doesn’t seem like they were actually even aiming for the protagonists.

Dean looks legitimately confused. “What do you mean?”

“Are these stormtroopers not trained to properly handle their firearms? My aim was better than theirs after a few short weeks of informal training.”

Dean grins. “It’s adorable you’re so offended, but I’m about to blow your mind. Ready?” Before Cas has a chance to respond, Dean launches into an explanation about how the poor marksmanship is all part of one big plot by the Empire to get Luke to play right into their hands.

“Hmm,” Cas says, as though considering this theory. “I’ll be right back.” He rummages around in Dean’s kitchen, grinning when he finds what he’s looking for and fashioning it into a crude shape before heading back into the living room to plunk the tinfoil hat on Dean’s head.

“You’re an ass,” Dean says, but he’s laughing as he hits play on the next movie. Cas finds himself grinning, too. Even though the movies seem mediocre to him, Dean’s enthusiasm is contagious.

Nonetheless, at the end of Episode VI, Cas’ final evaluation is a simple, “Well, that was educational.”

Dean gasps in mock offense. “Seriously? We watch this genre-defining series and all you have to say is it’s ‘educational’? C’mon, man.” He punches Cas’ shoulder.

Cas shrugs. He’d wanted to like this thing that was so clearly important to Dean, but he’s very picky about his media consumption. He says as much to Dean, who sighs dramatically.

“You’d probably like Star Trek better.” Dean says it like he’s disappointed, but there’s an edge to his voice that sounds far more like excitement.

“Are there several movies in that series as well?” Cas cocks his head, interested in spite of himself.

“Try a dozen movies and _hundreds_ of episodes, dude.” Dean stands up and pulls open one of the cabinets by his TV, revealing several shelves filled with nothing but Star Trek DVDs and blu-rays.

“That sounds like quite a commitment,” Cas says, eyeing the massive collection.

“Oh, it is,” Dean says, grinning cheekily. “But I’m willing to commit if you are.”

“I promise,” Cas says, and finds that he’s looking forward to the prospect of a thousand hours on the couch watching sci-fi with Dean even more than he used to look forward to going to the club.

\--

It seems like monsters are hibernating for the winter, because they get a whole uninterrupted month to start on their Star Trek marathon.

Cas finds himself actually enjoying it, much to his surprise, and not just because it means he gets to spend a lot of time with Dean. He likes that it explores various social issues, even if some of the episodes are a bit dated.

He also likes how infatuated Dean appears to be with Captain Kirk, so much so that when Cas expresses his admiration for Spock, Dean teases him about it, going on about how Kirk is “definitely way hotter.”

There are a few times where Dean’s friend Benny joins them, too. Cas likes feeling trusted with Dean’s friend. Like he’s being integrated into the rest of Dean’s life instead of kept separate from it.

And it works out well because they all get along great. Not that it’s hard, what with the mutual enjoyment of food and Star Trek.

Around the third time they’re all watching together, they’re onto the movies. It’s _Wrath of Khan,_ and at the end, after Dean is done shedding tears despite having seen this movie multiple times and Cas has stopped staring at the screen in shock, Benny gives a small laugh.

“So, fun fact, Kirk-slash-Spock is super popular,” Benny says. Dean shoots him a red-eyed glared.

“Really, you’re gonna do this now?”

“Yup, sure am.”

“What do you mean?” Cas asks. Benny grins and Dean slaps his leg.

“Like as in Kirk and Spock being romantically...involved. And holy shit did people love this movie. You should see all the fiction and art and shit fans have created. It’s this whole thing, and it actually is the origin of the term ‘slash.’ It’s all pretty neat.”

Cas doesn’t know enough to totally wrap his head around all the words coming out Benny’s mouth, but he thinks about it light of the respective characters with which he and Dean identify, and then suddenly he’s thinking about what touch means to Vulcans and all the casual touches he and Dean have shared over the past months, and he finds himself trying not to blush furiously under Benny’s sly, appraising gaze. He thinks he manages to keep a relatively straight face as he says, “That’s fascinating.”

Dean saves them both further awkwardness by rolling his eyes. “ _Wow,_ Benny. I didn’t think anyone could be a bigger Trek nerd than Charlie, but you proved me wrong.”

\--

Cas gets so used to filling his days by spending time with Dean that the holidays come as a rude shock. As more of Cas’ employees and Dean’s coworkers head out for Christmas vacation, they both find themselves busy with work, having little free time to spend lounging about with one another. They sneak in a few episodes here and there, but for the most part, all of Dean’s time is consumed with work and spending time with his own family, and Cas stays occupied with filling in the gaps left when his various assistants start taking their vacations.

It’s honestly kind of a bummer for Cas to fend for himself again; it makes him feel like the Grinch, but he’s actually sort of looking forward to the holiday season calming down so things can go back to normal. Or anyway, as normal as they can be considering that Cas is now a certified monster hunter.

When January finally rolls around and Dean calls, Cas waits until the third ring so he doesn’t seem too desperate.

“Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever,” Dean says before Cas even gets out a hello. It sends little thrill through him. “Bet we’re both getting rusty,” Dean says, and they agree to meet up for some research the next day to see if maybe any new cases have presented themselves during the holidays.

They make it all of two hours into a crash course on all sorts of lore -- stuff about kitsune and reapers and chupacabra and sirens just so Cas has some base of knowledge -- before they give up on it and do what Cas suspects they both really wanted to do in the first place: continue working their way through every Star Trek episode and movie ever created.

Dean is stretched out across the couch with his feet in Cas’ lap when he clears his throat and is like, “Hey, so uh, we're doing this thing, like, this family get-together. You should come.” He must misread Cas’ surprised silence because after a few seconds of hesitation he adds, “I mean, now that you’re a hunter, you’re practically part of the family anyway, you know? And we’ve been spending so much time together, I dunno, it feels like it’d be wrong not to invite you. But, you know, no pressure or anyth--”

“I’d love to,” Cas interrupts, unabashed. He’s trying his best to convey serious, genuine interest without coming across as suspiciously over-excited, but he’s not sure if he’s succeeding.

“It’s kinda for my birthday, but you don’t have to get me anything. Really.” Dean nudges at Cas’ thigh with his heel. “Like, we’re just gonna hang out and have dinner.” Cas nods, but he already knows exactly what he’s going to give Dean.

\--

Cas shows up at Mary’s a few days later, gift in hand. A huge guy with a smile of proportionate size opens the door. 

“You must be Castiel,” he says, and turns around to shout, “Dean, your secret boyfriend is here!” before ushering a slightly flustered and bewildered Cas inside. Dean comes to the rescue before Cas even makes it a few steps.

“Geez, Sam, give the poor guy a break,” he says, patting Cas on the shoulder apologetically as he leads him into the living room. “This is my younger brother. You know, the really obnoxious one I’ve been telling you about.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Sam,” Cas says, holding out his hand. Sam pulls him into a hug instead, and Cas returns the gesture after only a moment’s hesitation.

Once Sam releases Cas, Dean turns him toward the woman who has come to join them.

“You must be Mary,” Cas says, smiling. “Dean has told me so much about you.”

“Likewise,” she says, and there’s something a little mischievous in the look she gives him that he’s not quite sure how to interpret. Before he can think on it too much, Mary pulls him into a hug. “Great timing, by the way. Dinner’s ready. You boys hungry?” Cas smiles at how eagerly Dean and Sam nod.

“So, Castiel, what do you do?” Mary asks once they’re situated around the kitchen table. Cas takes a moment to demurely dab at his mouth with a napkin before he speaks.

“I own an international company primarily engaged in the manufacture of semiconductors. I’m not involved in the day to day operations, but I nonetheless manage our branches both here and in Europe and Asia.” In the silence that follows, Cas starts to regret rattling off his job description like he was penning a LinkedIn post.

“I guess you could say he,” Dean says, then pauses for so long that Cas wonders if he’s lost his train of thought completely. “ _Overseas_ the business.”

Sam and Cas groan at precisely the same moment, easing whatever tension was present. When they’re both finished rolling their eyes, they smile at each other conspiratorially. Cas is pretty sure they just became immediate allies in the war against Dean’s terrible puns.

Dean must have understood this silent exchange, because the next thing out of his mouth is, “You’re not allowed to be mad. You’ve written texts that were literally 90% bee puns.”

“You’re the one that showed me the emojis,” Cas says gravely. “Surely you share in some of the blame. You would be hard pressed to say the same about the present situation, however.”

“Boys,” Mary says in mock warning, “stop arguing and eat your dinner.”

After dinner they move to the living room, where Mary insists on dimming the lights for the cake and Cas counts twenty-eight candles after Dean blows them out. Sam and Mary both have small gifts for Dean, but when Cas offers his, Dean tries to rebuff him.

“Dude, I thought I told you not to get me anything,” he says, pushing the parcel away.

“I didn’t _get_ you anything,” Cas urges him. “Just open it.”

Dean sighs melodramatically and rips off the paper. When he opens the box, he finds what looks like an iPhone, but one that’s been tinkered with. It has an extraneous looking coil looped over the top, and several wires running over the back.

“What is this?” Dean asks as he hits the power button. Despite his confidence in the gift, Cas finds himself blushing.

“It, uh. It’s an EMF meter. I used the design you showed me as the base, but I made some additional modifications. The result is a device that’s both smaller and has the additional capability to isolate the unique electromagnetic fields generated by spirits from those created by nearby power lines,” he lets out in a rush.

“ _What?_ ” Dean sounds flabbergasted. He’s touching the screen, now, flipping through the various settings and turning up the volume. 

“It’s just a matter of frequencies,” Castiel says, as if that’s a simple explanation. “Happy birthday.”

Dean looks up from his new toy and pauses. He’s looking at Castiel like he’s evaluating him, like he maybe can’t think of the words to say. The silence stretches out to include Sam and Mary, who are watching the scene with obvious interest. Dean inhales, looks down at the EMF meter in his hands, and steels himself.

“I think I’m kinda in love with you.”

Dean’s eyes linger on Cas for a moment before he laughs. Cas’ heart is racing and his face feels like it’s on fire, but Dean’s laughter is contagious, so after a second he finds himself laughing, too, which actually does help to relieve some of the tension.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam and Mary share a look. He wishes he knew them well enough to decipher it.

Cas tries to convince himself it was all a joke, but he can’t tell whether or not he’s imagining it when it seems like Dean spends the rest of the evening casually brushing against him at every opportunity. They do the dishes, Dean washing, Cas drying, and Cas’ heart jumps every time Dean hands off a plate, every time their fingers almost graze one another.

Later, when they’re all watching Die Hard for what Sam insists is the fiftieth time, Dean lets his legs drift until one knee is pressed against Cas’. Cas has no idea what is going on in the movie, but he’s acutely aware of the pressure at their point of contact, the warmth of Dean’s leg against him. 

When the movie ends, Mary announces she’s going to bed. She kisses both of her sons on the forehead and gently squeezes Cas’ shoulder as she tells them goodnight and urges them to not stay up too late, please.

Sam, Dean, and Cas hang out for a while longer, each of them nursing a beer and talking about why the Die Hard movies are obvious classics and which cop movies are the best. Sam, being a heathen, refuses to acknowledge the greatness of Point Break, and he won’t stop teasing Dean for knowing more Die Hard lines than Christmas carols. Even so, there’s obvious warmth in their conversation that Cas sits and absorbs, having very few thoughts on the merits of Keanu Reeves, whether personally or as an actor. 

Sam finally drains the last of his beer, shaking his head. “Okay, I’m not gonna win this one,” he says, laughing. “I’m gonna hit the hay.”

“Get some rest, brother,” Dean says.

“I will,” Sam says. He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “And Dean, I realize you just turned twenty-eight, but I actually do want to get some sleep tonight, so how about you kids keep it PG-13.”

“How about _you_ keep it PG-13,” Dean mumbles, affronted. Sam just rolls his eyes and smiles.

“G’night, Cas,” he says.

Cas is about to vibrate out of his skin, but he manages to say, “Sleep well, Sam.”

As soon as Sam leaves the room, Dean leans back and props his feet up on the coffee table, sinking into the couch as he stretches his arms across the back and closes his eyes. Cas wonders if that’s supposed to be some sort of signal, if Dean is content to leave his earlier declaration hanging in the air, to fall asleep without commenting on it any further. He spends a while trying to work up the nerve to broach the subject and only manages to convince himself to start speaking when he realizes it’s after midnight and there’s a distinct possibility that Dean will drop off before they can discuss it.

“Dean, what you said earlier, were you--” Cas has to stop and clear his throat, collect his nerves. “Were you joking?”

Dean keeps his eyes closed and says, with a completely straight face, “I never joke.”

Cas glares affectionately until Dean cracks one eye open. When he catches sight of Cas’ expression, he grins before sitting up to face Cas, eyes fully open, expression shifting to something more serious.

“I know I said it like I was joking,” Dean pauses then, reaching over to take Cas’ hand, “but no, I wouldn’t say something like that if I didn’t mean it. I’m kind of a jerk, but I’m not _that_ big of a jerk.”

Cas is stunned, still trying to process Dean’s words as he says, “Oh. That’s. That’s good.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, squeezing Cas’ hand. Cas doesn’t understand what Dean is expecting. “What?”

Dean chuckles, a little nervous. “This is the part where you tell me if the feeling is mutual.”

Cas is stunned that Dean could not already know the answer, but Dean is still looking at him, so he says, carefully, “Yes. It’s very mutual.”

Dean nods sagely. “Good,” he says, with gravity. “Wanna make out?” Castiel can’t help it; he laughs at the absurdity, at how happy he is, at how lucky he feels to be here, in the this place at this moment.

“Yeah,” Cas finally gets out. He reaches out with his free hand to touch Dean’s face and pull him in. He’s fucking _elated_ \-- he can’t stop his hands from wandering before they’ve even kissed. He feels supremely stupid, as though his body hasn’t yet come to terms with the fact that he’s actually allowed to _touch_ Dean now, so his hands only hover over Dean’s waist, his back.

Dean smiles softly. “It’s okay,” he says, at the same moment he reaches out and pulls Cas against himself. Cas finally relaxes and smiles against Dean’s neck, lets himself run his hands underneath Dean’s shirt to feel the warm skin there. Cas is so caught up in the sensation of Dean’s skin under his fingers that he jumps a little when Dean nudges him and says, “Jeez, put your face on my face already.”

“Okay,” Cas says, and then he learns how warm Dean’s lips are, too. He kisses Dean with enthusiasm that’s been building for months, nervousness melting away with every passing second. For a few minutes, Cas’ thoughts are entirely devoted to the taste of Dean’s skin, the feel of Dean’s mouth against his own.

Then Dean shifts, lying down on the couch and pulling Cas on top of him with steady hands, and Cas freezes with his hands underneath Dean’s shirt and his mouth at Dean’s jaw. He feels suddenly out of his depth, fixed in place by his own disbelief at the sudden shift from off-limits to very, very _on._

“Do you need polite instruction?” Dean asks, smiling.

“I,” Cas says, swallowing hard before smiling, too. “Yes, please.”

Dean smiles wider as he runs his hands over Cas’ back and down over his ass. He grips hard and pulls Cas against him. Cas lets out a small moan, and Dean smiles and nudges at Cas’ cheek to bring their faces together so they can kiss properly again.

Cas is completely overwhelmed. His mind is startlingly blank, his entire existence narrowed to this moment, to the feel of Dean’s body pressed against his own. He doesn’t seem to have enough processing power to contemplate anything else. Not that he’s complaining.

When Dean pulls back slightly, though, he makes a small noise of protest. Dean laughs softly and kisses him on the side of his mouth.

“Well, this is awesome,” Dean says, brushing Cas’ hair off his forehead, “but I’m in a food coma and need sleep. I dunno about you, but I don’t feel like standing, let alone driving. Wanna just crash here?”

It takes Cas a second to reorient himself enough to process Dean’s question, let alone answer it. “Crash here? What, on the couch?”

“Well, no, my old bedroom is still, you know, a bedroom.” He laughs. “I call little spoon, though. It’s my birthday, so I get to pick. Them’s the rules.”

\--

The next morning, when Mary asks what they want for breakfast, Dean shouts, “Pie!” before anyone else can respond.

“What?” he asks in response to Sam’s narrow glare. “It’s still within 24 hours of the time of my birth, it counts.” 

“That’s what you said when we had pie for breakfast the day _before_ your birthday,” Sam says, somewhat petulantly. Cas helps Mary cut and serve the remaining pie while the brothers bicker, following dutifully behind her to dole it out.

Dean immediately, unabashedly stuffs his face while Cas watches, somewhere between startled and bemused. Mary is resting her chin on her hand and looking at him with a mix of affection and skepticism.

After a minute, she catches Cas’ eye and says, “I’m so happy you and Dean found each other, Cas. We were starting to worry about this weirdo.” Cas blushes furiously and thinks he must looks as confused as he feels, because the next thing Mary says is, “I would offer you Sam instead, but he’s taken.”

“Yep, sorry, man. You’re stuck with him,” Sam confirms, taking his own gigantic bite.

Dean smiles and shows no sign of shame as he continues shoveling pie into his mouth.

\--

“So, I have the day off,” Dean says, once breakfast is over. “Up for a Star Trek marathon?”

“Your mother seems very kind,” Cas says, raising an eyebrow, “but I’m not sure she would appreciate us lounging about all day hogging her TV.”

Dean grins at that. “Well, then, I guess we’ll just have to move this party to my apartment. What do you say?”

And because Cas isn’t an idiot, he says yes.

They say their goodbyes to Mary and Sam, promising to get lunch before Sam heads back to Palo Alto. They have to drive in separate cars, and while Cas hates being away from Dean, he’s glad to have a moment to pull himself together. He still hasn’t processed the sudden shift in their relationship, and as he drives he wonders how sudden it was, how much he should have anticipated. He had thought Dean considered him a friend and he had thought that was an achievement, but he feels silly for having missed whatever signs might have preceded last night.

It’s not enough to make him stop smiling, though.

When they arrive at Dean’s place, Cas parks on the street before following Dean up the driveway to the front door. Dean opens it and smiles in an exaggerated _After you_ gesture, which makes Castiel smile.

“All right, shall we pick up where we left off?” Dean asks after they’re inside.

Cas doesn’t react at first, immobilized by the excitement that’s suddenly sprouted underneath his ribs. Dean moves toward him, practically rushes him, and has Cas pressed against the wall within a second. At Cas’ small noise of surprise, though, he pulls away.

“You okay?” Dean rubs his thumb over Cas’ cheek and licks his lips.

“Yeah,” Cas gets out before has to get his mouth back on Dean’s, to get his hands underneath Dean’s shirt.

They stay like that for a minute or two, kissing against the wall in Dean’s entryway. Cas is trying to wonder how he ended up here, what he did to deserve it, but his mind keeps stopping midsentence, until finally his hands move all on their own and his fingers are digging into Dean’s hips. Dean groans and pushes his thigh against Cas’ erection just _so_ and his breath hitches as he tries to rut up against him. He can feel Dean smile against his mouth as he pulls away and again he makes a small, involuntary noise. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s move this to the couch.” Cas doesn’t protest that, just lets himself be led. Dean walks backwards, totally comfortable in this space that is so obviously _his,_ pulling Cas with him with hands on his hips. Dean doesn’t push Cas down onto the couch so much as guide him with his entire body, so that he ends up with Cas in a sitting position, Dean straddling his lap.

If Cas thought the lap dances in the club were good, then this is -- holy _shit._ Dean is shifting against him with practiced movements and Cas is pretty sure it hasn’t even been a full minute but he’s already losing it, already breathing hard, his eyes fluttering shut. Somehow, Cas finds the willpower to fix Dean with a stare and say breathlessly, “So, when are we going to stop to cuddle?”

Dean grins at that, small and gorgeous, and says, “Oh, there will be plenty of time for that later. In the meantime, think I can make you come just like this?” He punctuates the last word with a thrust of his hips, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Cas.

“I don’t know,” Cas asks, “can you?”

Dean smiles serenely. “Oh, definitely. I was just asking to be polite.”

The way Dean starts moving after that completely overwhelms him. Cas feels off balance in the best way possible -- the expert shift of Dean’s hips is familiar, but this is so different from when Dean is at work. They’re in Dean’s home, this place he put together himself and into which he invited Cas, the setting adding a new level of intimacy and trust. They’re not on a clock, so it’s slow and unhurried and affectionate, Dean with one arm around Cas’ back and the other on his neck, Cas with his fingers digging into Dean’s hips. There’s no music in the background, and the only sounds are the ones they’re making themselves, skin against skin, clothing against clothing, Cas’ ragged breathing and finally, finally Dean’s ragged breathing as well.

Dean here of his own volition, Dean choosing Cas.

He can feel Dean against him, the hard line pressed against his stomach, and he can’t help it when he bucks his hips underneath him. When Cas pulls Dean down against him, tightening his grip on his legs, Dean moans into Cas’ mouth.

Cas comes just like that, fully clothed, clinging to Dean for dear life, and he doesn’t even have time to feel embarrassed about it before Dean follows him. Dean almost looks surprised, like he didn’t expect it.

Once the shock wears off, Dean collapses against Cas with his cheek on his shoulder, smiling against the side of his neck. Cas unclenches one hand from Dean’s thigh and brings it up to card through his hair. “That was...pleasant,” Cas sighs, still a little breathless.

Dean sits back up, eyebrow raised as if to say “Only _pleasant?_ ” before he notices the glint in Cas’ eye, the slight smile he can’t quite hide. Dean smiles, rolling his eyes. “That was _quick,_ ” Dean says, planting a kiss on the side of Cas’ mouth before extricating himself. “You some kinda wizard?”

Cas doesn’t stand yet, but instead looks down at himself and frowns. “If only. I didn’t, um. Anticipate needing a change of clothes.”

“No worries,” Dean says, offering a hand to help Cas up. “You can borrow some of mine.” He leads Cas into his bedroom, rifling through his drawers to toss Cas a pair of boxers, some sweatpants, and a t-shirt before grabbing some fresh clothes for himself. Cas is still standing a bit awkwardly by the time Dean has closed his dresser, wondering how many liberties he can take with Dean’s space. Dean seems to pick up on Cas’ discomfort, because he immediately pulls his shirt over his head and starts undoing his pants as he says with a grin, “Finally get to see you naked.”

Cas relaxes a bit at that, setting the clothes on the bed and beginning to undress as well. “Was this all part of your master plan?” he asks, smiling.

“Obviously,” Dean says, blatantly checking Cas out as he finishes stripping.

“I feel _weird_ in sweatpants,” Cas admits as he pulls on Dean’s clothes.”I never dress this far down in front of other people.”

Dean casts him an appraising glance. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You look totally hot. And by ‘totally hot,’ I mean the way those pants show off your ass is damn distracting.”

“My apologies,” Cas says seriously, trying his best to keep a straight face.

“I’ll forgive you just this once,” Dean says, heading back into the living room and gesturing for Cas to follow. “But only because it’s still less distracting than the alternative. I totally would have suggested we both just sit around naked, but if I have constant easy access to have my way with those hips of yours, it’s gonna be _all_ I do, and I really do want to start _The Next Generation_ today, dammit.”

As much as Cas had enjoyed the first part of his day, he finds himself looking forward to the rest of it, too.


	6. Chapter 6

A few days later, Cas catches wind of what he thinks might be a hunt up in Temple. While it could just be some human creeper kidnapping children from the mall, he runs it by Dean to make sure.

Dean considers the series of articles Cas has bookmarked.

“I _think_ it’s a hunt,” he says once he’s finished reading. “I mean, even the police in Temple should be able to catch a mere mortal being awful, right? But it could just be Temple being weird and gross. There’s nothing but a nasty old mall there. And just. Ugh.” Dean shudders in disgust.

Cas says, deadpan, “Not true. I hear they’ve put in a Target.”

Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his limbs out. “All right, all right,” he says, “I suppose there are probably still some people there worth saving. Let’s check it out.” He falls back against the couch, groaning.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks.

“This better not take more than a day,” he says, then grumbles something indistinct about “Fuckin’ Temple” before begrudgingly agreeing to pack his overnight bag.

They spend the first twenty minutes on I-35 in companionable silence; Dean had insisted on taking the Impala, so Cas sits in the passenger seat, enjoying the pastures they pass and mentally counting the number of religious billboards.

Finally, Cas asks, “Is there a reason for your particular hatred of Temple?”

Dean sighs, shifting a little in his seat. Cas keeps his eyes on Dean and Dean keeps his eyes on the road.

“My dad lived up there for a while after he and my mom split. Before he left the state, I used to visit him and it was awkward as hell, you know? He was kind of an asshole, and all I could think about when I was there was ‘Hey look, here’s this trash town for my trash father.’”

Cas appreciates his candidness, but he isn’t sure what to say, if he should apologize or say something to lighten the mood or what. Dean beats him to it, though, grinning. “I may have said that to his face, actually. It was awesome,” he laughs, finally turning to look at Cas. “But yeah, all that aside, Temple is just gross.”

Cas hums thoughtfully and reaches over to hold Dean’s free hand, and Dean smiles at him when he twines their fingers together. Cas figures his response can’t have been too far off the mark.

“Speaking of weird and gross,” Cas says, a few minutes later, “Did you hear about that Nobel Prize winner who insisted women have no place in the sciences?”

Dean throws his right hand up in the air, taking Cas’ left with it. “Oh my _god,_ did I ever. That was the stupidest shit. But people’s response to it has been awesome. Hang on, you gotta check this out.” Dean pulls his hand from Cas’ and starts pulling over to the side of the road.

“What are you doing?” Cas asks, checking the lane behind them reflexively.

“What, like I’m going to use my phone while I’m driving? I don’t have a death wish. Take the pledge, Cas,” he says, winking.

Cas rolls his eyes but leans over anyway when Dean says, “Aha, found it.” He proudly shows Cas a screenshot of what he explains is a tweet Sam’s girlfriend, Jess, had made in response to the guy’s gross comments. She’s standing in full PPE, giving a thumbs up and has captioned the image with #distractinglysexy. Cas agrees that it’s awesome, and Dean nods in approval before putting his phone away and pulling back out onto the road.

They roll into Temple and grab some burgers to go before heading over to the shitty old mall Dean had mentioned, near where the attacks took place. They both complain good-naturedly about how boring the stakeout is, but Cas gets the sense that neither of their hearts are really in it because hey, at least the company is good.

There are actually some police milling about, and Dean nods approvingly. “Glad to see they’re taking this seriously,” he says around a mouthful of fries.

But then it’s after nine and the mall is closing down, and one by one the cop cars all leave to go protect and serve the rest of the town.

Dean frowns. “Well, guess we’ll be back tomorrow.”

Cas shrugs, but before he can express his disappointment any further, a scream suddenly echoes through the parking lot.

They share a quick glance before Dean says, “Shit,” and they both rush out of the car, guns in hand.

They run to the back of the mall and find a teenager sitting up against the wall sobbing hysterically, almost like he’s choking on air.

“What happened?” Dean asks, kind but firm. He manages to glean that something has grabbed the kid’s friend and wandered off towards the neighborhood behind the mall, where most of the houses are vacant if not outright condemned.

Dean glances at Cas and shrugs, giving the kid one perfunctory pat on the shoulder before they take off running toward the houses and the trees. 

As they come around the corner of the first house, Cas is almost relieved when they find someone dragging the kid along kicking and flailing, one hand over their mouth to stifle the screaming -- he hadn’t known how fast Dean could actually sprint. While he’s still trying to catch his breath, Dean shouts, “Hey, asshole!” and the guy pauses long enough for the kid to jerk away a bit. Dean gets a clean shot into the meat of the creep’s thigh.

Except that doesn’t seem to stop him. It just makes him angry.

He lets go of the kid and rushes Dean, who gets off another shot into his shoulder. Cas gets one into his side and that still doesn’t stop him, and Dean has just enough time to shout, “Shit, rawhead!” before the thing is on him. “Taser, Cas!” he yells, and Cas doesn’t have to be told twice, just takes off sprinting while Dean struggles with the rawhead, cursing the whole time.

Cas digs through the trunk to find the taser, absently proud of himself for his lack of panic, and runs back toward Dean as fast as he can. When he gets there, Dean is on his back with the rawhead straddling him on its knees, hands around Dean’s neck.

Cas empties his clip into the rawhead, which must infuriate it, because it lets go of Dean and stands to start toward him. As soon as it’s no longer touching Dean, Cas fires the taser into it.

Cas had read about how rawheads supposedly dissolve into an awful mess of viscera when they die, but seeing it in person is a truly revolting experience. Dean gags in wordless agreement.

“Are you all right?” Cas asks.

Dean lets out a long, disgusted groan as he stands. “Did you have to kill it when it was standing right over me?”

“Would you have preferred I let it continue to strangle you?”

“Fair enough,” Dean says, then pauses for a second and then strikes a pose, one hand on his hip. “Hashtag distractingly sexy,” he says, laughing.

“You’re unbelievable,” Cas says fondly. Then it hits him. “What happened to the kid?” he asks.

“He ran off while I was fighting that thing,” Dean says, taking off his overshirt.

“And what about the other kids? The ones from before?”

All traces of a smile fade from Dean’s face. “Well, I really wish it had just been some creeper stowing these kids away somewhere, because the hope of finding them alive has gone down to 0%,” he says soberly.

Cas swallows hard. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, sighing. “Told you this is a shitty town.”

They walk back to the car in silence. Dean makes Cas dig some spare blankets and a tarp out of the trunk because, as he says vehemently, “Like hell am I getting this shit in my baby.” Once they’re settled, Cas pulls out his phone to navigate them to a nearby motel (“Guess we gotta spend the night after all,” Dean admits, looking down at his ruined clothes) and gets them a room -- a single -- so Dean can get cleaned up.

Once they’ve both showered separately, because Cas had wanted no part of the rawhead remains, they order pizza and watch a few episodes of M.A.S.H., Dean’s head on Cas’ shoulder.

By the time they lie down to sleep, Cas curled around Dean and enjoying the smell of his freshly-washed hair, he finds himself thinking _This is nice,_ before he remembers everything that happened. He feels a little pang of guilt tugging in his chest on behalf of the children they were unable to save. But still. It’s nice.

They wake up early the next morning to drive back so Dean can be to work on time, and Cas fusses over him a little, gently touching the bruises on his neck and ribs.

“That’s the job, what’re you gonna do.” Dean shrugs, rubbing a bit of concealer over the darker bruises on his neck.

When they get back to Dean’s, he kisses Cas outside his front door. Cas drives back to his own apartment, thinking about the fact that hunting is some dark shit sometimes, but if they can make it through that together, they can make it through anything.

\--

The next day, Cas finds himself with nothing to do. Dean’s at work, so there’s no training to be done; they just wrapped up a case, so they don’t have anything that currently needs researching; and he’s caught up enough at work that he’s able to leave right at five. He hasn’t been alone like this since Christmas, and he’s forgotten how to just sit in his apartment, enjoy the silence or his stereo, read a book, and relax.

Castiel is usually someone who needs lots of time to himself, who needs to recharge after just a few hours of socializing. Dean’s constant presence hasn’t had that effect on him. Instead, he’s restless for company. He paces around his apartment and stands at the foot of his bed for a while, contemplating stripping the sheets and doing laundry. When he finally decides against that, he walks to the kitchen and opens and closes the fridge a few times. He stares at the coffee cup he used this morning, alone in the sink, but doesn’t wash it.

He knows Dean is working tonight and since he doesn’t have anything else to do, he puts his shoes back on and grabs his keys.

When he walks into the club twenty minutes later, he spots Dean almost immediately. He’s entertaining a bachelorette party, like the first night they met. Cas smiles at the memory, which turns into smiling and waving toward Dean. After a minute, Dean seems to catch the movement in the corner of his eye and goes wide eyed for a split second before standing up. When he reaches Cas, he’s shaking his head.

“Dude, you can't come here if we're together. It's distracting,” Dean’s voice is surprisingly serious.

“I don’t understand,” Cas says.

“I just need to keep my work and my personal life separate, you know? Just like the hunting thing.” Dean reaches out to touch Cas’ shoulder reassuringly, but Cas can’t help himself from feeling hurt, dread blooming in his chest at the mere suggestion that Dean doesn’t want him around.

Cas’ worry must be written all over his face, because Dean doesn’t let go. “Look, you know I love spending time with you, right?” Dean smiles sympathetically and squeezes Cas’ shoulder. Cas nods tentatively, because objectively, that seems to be the case based on the amount of time Dean spends smiling and laughing and just being generally happy when they’re together. “Well, that’s exactly the problem. I mean, can you imagine if you were at the office and I came to sit by your desk while you were trying to make calls and shit?”

“It would be very tempting to ignore my work in favor of spending time with you,” Cas admits.

“Exactly. So, I’m happy to see you and all, but please get out.” Dean smiles and gives Cas’ shoulder a gentle push. When Cas hesitates, he heaves an exaggerated sigh and pushes him a little harder.

“ _Go._ I’ll call you when I get off.”

Cas walks out the door and he has every intention of just heading home, he really does, but by the time he makes it to his car he’s starting to feel guilty about the whole thing. He remembers what Dean said, and that he didn’t seem angry or anything, but some traitorous part of him is still worried he did something wrong, so he lamely sits outside the club wringing his hands and trying to think what to do until he loses track of time. When the passenger door opens suddenly, Cas jumps and makes an aborted attempt to defend himself against the intruder. Dean settles in the seat and turns to face Cas, raising his eyebrows.

“All right, dude, it’s after three. What the hell are you doing waiting out here for like, four hours?”

Cas gapes for a moment, still stunned by Dean’s sudden appearance. He winds up saying the first thing that comes to mind. “I wanted to take you to dinner to apologize.”

Dean still looks skeptical. “First of all, it’s the middle of the night. Morning. Whatever. And second, apologize for what?”

“For, you know.” Cas gestures vaguely and squints at the windshield. “Being creepy.”

“Because waiting outside my work for four hours isn't creepy?” Dean admonishes him, but he already sounds more affectionately amused than genuinely irritated.

“I wasn't here the _whole_ time,” Cas insists, even though he definitely was.

Dean rolls his eyes. “All right, weirdo,” he says fondly, “here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna drive us to the most secluded place you can find within the space of about five minutes and then, if you still feel the need to ‘apologize,’ you're welcome to give me the night of my life in the back of this kickass car. And I know you can afford to have your custom leather upholstery cleaned,” he says, glancing to the back seat, “so don't even try making that excuse.”

“I assure you, I was not going to make any excuses, Dean,” Cas says soberly, because he wasn’t.

“Good,” Dean says, nodding. “Then start driving while I take my pants off.”

Cas furrows his brow so intensely that his upper eyelids disappear entirely. “I -- why are you already taking your pants off?”

“You distracted me at work. This is revenge,” Dean says as he flicks his fly open. “You can look at the road or at my dick. It is literally a life or death decision.” He gets his pants open and sits with his arms crossed behind his head, one foot on the dash, looking unbearably smug.

While Cas wants to live slightly more than he wants to stare, it’s really only because he can hardly stand how good this apology sounds.

The fact is, though, that they’re in a city, and finding a secluded area is realistically more likely to be a dark alley than a romantic outcrop. Cas drives north a little and to the other side of the freeway, where bars give way to neighborhood, and pulls into the first dark alley-like space he sees.

When they finally roll to a stop, Dean slides himself over the seat and into the back so quickly that Castiel is briefly convinced he teleported.

“Dean,” Cas breathes, fumbling with his seatbelt.

“I’m waiting,” Dean says, drawing out the words into lilting sing-song. Since he doesn’t have Dean’s superhuman powers, Cas has to open the door and fold the seat forward, hunching down to get into the back seat with Dean.

He shifts around for a bit trying to find a comfortable position before resigning himself to the fact that there probably isn’t one, and when he finally looks up, Dean laughs.

“Still waiting,” Dean says, and as Cas starts pulling Dean’s pants the rest of the way off, he swears that Dean is intentionally making it more difficult than it already is. But he perseveres, and in a few seconds he’s tossing Dean’s jeans and boxers into the front seat. He looks down at Dean’s now naked lower half and takes a deep breath, running his hands over the tops of Dean’s smooth thighs.

“Wait -- WAIT,” Dean’s shouts abruptly, and Cas recoils. He pushes Cas against the opposite door so that he can lean over the front seat and grab his jeans. After a minute of fumbling up front with his ass inches from Cas’ face, Dean flops back down in the back seat with his phone in his hands. Cas watches, perplexed, as Dean toys with his phone. Finally, his face lights up.

“Found it. Let's see what you can do in...3 minutes and 21 seconds,” Dean says, and hits play. A woman’s voice starts playing from the tiny speakers, and Cas thinks he hears something about sex in a car before the first notes of a song begin to play.

_Wham! Bam! Thank you, man!_

Cas is so perplexed that all he manages is, “What?”

Dean glances back down at his phone, still grinning. “3 minutes and 5 seconds,” he says. “Tick tock.”

“Wait,” Cas says. “Are you giving me a time limit?”

“You’re smart,” Dean says, perhaps not as reassuringly as he was hoping. “I know you learn quick.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“You’re insufferable,” Cas says, but he lowers his head and presses his lips to the head of Dean’s cock.

\--

Dean takes a deep breath and lets himself relax, focusing on the feel of Cas’ mouth.

It’s pleasant, he decides. Cas is good at this, but not stupidly good, not porn star good, he thinks. It’s more technical than he would do himself, but it’s more than he expected, given what he assumes to be Cas’ relative lack of experience. He decides to say so, but Cas must be gaining confidence, because all of a sudden his dick is touching the back of Cas’ throat and his tongue is flat against the base and Dean can feel a thin line of saliva trailing over his balls.

“Ah,” Dean groans, “there you go.” He tilts his hips a little, trying not to thrust too much. Cas’ tongue is warm as he drags it over the underside, ridiculously hot when he pauses to pull his tongue over the slit; his hands press with surprising surety against his hips, and Dean is a little shocked at the sudden change in the dynamic. The song is still playing, but Dean has mostly tuned it out, too absorbed in the wet sounds of Cas’ mouth, the tension of his own breathing. At some point Cas had moved one his hands to gently grip the base of Dean’s dick, where his mouth doesn’t reach, and Dean gasps when Cas’ thumb moves down over the seam of his balls. Cas pulls off with a wet pop.

“Is this okay?” he asks, dragging his thumb across Dean’s perineum. 

He barely gets out another “Yeah” before Cas’ mouth is back on him. Dean full out moans at the first gentle swipe of Cas’ finger over his hole. He’s thankful that Cas has the good sense not to actually press, but the touch feels so good in tandem with the wet warmth around his dick as Cas tightens his lips and _sucks_ that he suddenly finds his hand in Cas’ hair, pulling hard.

Cas makes this smug little noise in the back of his throat, and Dean never believed that people could really _feel_ sounds during blow jobs, not like this, not until now.

Suddenly, the song ends and Dean isn’t finished. Cas pauses to look up and cock his head to the side.

“Were you serious about the time limit?” he asks.

Before Dean can respond, though, another song starts playing. Cas looks puzzled, but Dean just shrugs.

“I need good tunes, okay. I mean, I gotta make my own kickass playlists for work, anyway. May as well be prepared.”

Cas frowns, brow furrowed. “You...had a playlist prepared for this exact scenario.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah?”

“Unbelievable.”

“Whatever. Don’t stop, though.”

Cas rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t stop.

Dean makes a strangled noise that has Cas glancing up as if eager to see the look on his face. Dean has one hand tangled in Cas’ hair and the other on the window, leaving streaks in the condensation that has accumulated on the glass.

Cas pulls away from Dean’s crotch in order to contemplate the situation and say, “I think I saw this in a movie once.”

“Is that a...a fucking _Titanic_ reference,” Dean says breathlessly. His eyes are closed and he pants, “Okay, now you really _do_ owe me an apology.”

Dean thinks he can feel Cas smile at the junction of his hip and thigh before he’s enveloped in the wet heat of his mouth again. This time, Cas’ hands are on his inner thighs, pressing his legs apart. Eventually he hooks his elbows under Dean’s knees so that he’s in control of Dean’s movements, and that progresses into Cas on his knees, his head bowed and his hands underneath Dean’s ass, pushing him up into Cas’ mouth. Dean is relying more and more on the hand behind his head to maintain his balance as Cas lifts him up.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean groans, pushing back off the window, trying to gain some amount of leverage. “Keep, ah, don’t stop.”

Cas continues, obedient as he’s been this whole time. His hands are too busy supporting Dean to touch anywhere outside of his immediate reach, but he spreads his fingers wide, as though trying to touch Dean as many places as he can. Dean lets out a pitiful whimper as Cas hoists one of Dean’s legs over his shoulder.

Dean knows he’s one or two well-timed movements away from finishing. He tries to warn Cas by pulling even harder at his hair, but that only seems to spur him on.

“Cas,” he says and tries to get out more, something that actually sounds like a warning, but he can’t. Not with Castiel’s hands pulling him apart and his mouth warm around his cock. When Cas catches a drop of his own saliva and spreads it over his hole, barely pressing the tip of his finger in, Dean loses it.

“Shit -- fuck, Cas,” Dean gasps, and then he’s moaning so loudly he’s sure he’s going to wake up the entire neighborhood except he doesn’t care, not when he can feel Cas holding him up and he knows he doesn’t have to worry that he’s going to fall, because Cas has him, by his cock and his hips and every other part of him.

After a minute, Dean comes down enough to swat gently at Cas’ hands.

“Put me down,” he says on a sigh, and Cas obliges. The leather is surprisingly cool against Dean’s skin.

“Well, fuck.” He laughs. “This was a cool car before, but it's definitely a hot rod now.”

Castiel smiles, then, and buries his face in Dean’s stomach.

\--

Cas wakes up the next morning a little disoriented. It takes him a minute to pull all his memories from last night forward, going to the club and sex in the car and the ease with which he’d agreed to crashing at Dean’s.

“Morning, handsome,” comes Dean’s voice from underneath a pillow.

“Do you really have to work a day shift?” Cas grumbles, burrowing under the pillow with him.

“It’s Saturday, it’ll be worth it. Plus then I’ll get home early and we can order pizza and watch more Trek, and, you know, have more awesome sex.”

“I can’t believe you don’t even get a full eight hours between shifts,” Cas sighs, “That’s not even enough time for one meal and a good sleep, let alone two meals and morning sex.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the game, buddy,” Dean says and kisses the tip of Cas’ nose. “I gotta get dressed and get going, but feel free to relax here, you earned it with all your _hard_ work yesterday.” He winks and rolls out of bed while Cas groans and pulls the pillow tightly over his ears.

\--

Cas spends the day loitering around halfheartedly doing research; there’s still so much he doesn’t know and it’s going to take him months, if not years, to catch up to Dean. So he tries to make good use of his time and digs around some of Dean’s more archaic books.

He gets so engrossed in a book about summoning spells that when he finally looks up, he realizes it’s an hour past when Dean’s shift was supposed to end and he isn’t back yet. He feels a brief flutter of panic before realizing that Dean probably just got caught up in a party or his boss guilted him into staying later to cover some more fees, so instead of frantically calling, he opts to text.

_I imagine you’re unexpectedly having to work late, so please let me know when you’re on the way home._

He goes back to reading and checks his phone every few minutes. After another hour, he can’t focus on the book any more; after two hours, he can’t even sit still. By hour three Cas is starting to get more than a little anxious. He calls Dean but gets no answer; tries again and it goes straight to voicemail. The third call he makes is directly to Slice of Heaven. He asks a woman whose voice he doesn’t recognize when Dean left, stuttering on the word “boyfriend” when she defensively asks who wants to know. When she finally says no, Dean left hours ago, panic sets in. Cas isn’t sure if the the nausea and headache he’s currently cultivating are from worry or just a coincidence, but he swallows hard, pushing them both to the back of his mind as he grabs his jacket and heads out the door.

As soon as Cas turns the corner into the club’s employee parking lot and sees the Impala, his stomach drops.

Somehow he manages to get out of his car and take a look. It’s a concrete lot, so of course there are no footprints, but there’s a long scratch on the driver’s side door like maybe Dean was shoved against the car and scraped the paint with his key. Cas laughs a little hysterically at how angry Dean’s going to be when he sees the scratch and then just thinks, _Fuck._

He goes into the club with the vague hope they have cameras pointed at the lot, but when he asks one of the bouncers, the guy looks downright bored.

“What do you think, buddy? And even if we did, why would we show you?” he asks, disinterested. Cas briefly considers digging out one his newly minted FBI badges but thinks better of it. The people here recognize him well enough that he can’t take the risk.

So he goes back to his car and does the only thing he can think of: he calls Mary.

“Has Dean not been answering your calls, either?” she asks by way of greeting.

“No.” Cas lets out a long breath.

“Are you okay to drive?”

Cas lifts up his left hand and watches as it only slightly quivers. “I think so.”

“Okay, get your butt over here and we’ll see what we can see.”

Cas nods for a long second before he remembers that she can’t actually see him. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes,” he confirms.

“Sounds good. And Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Everything’s gonna be okay.”


	7. Chapter 7

The first thing Mary does after opening the door is wrap Cas in a hug.

“You doing okay, sweetie?”

“I’m fine,” he says, shakily. He forgets for a moment that he should probably be comforting her, too. “How are you doing?” he asks as he pulls away.

“Well, I’ve been better, but now I know what we’re up against, so that’s something.”

Cas tilts his head in a silent question.

“It’s vamps. I’m almost positive it’s a nest we’ve encountered before -- Dean’s first hunt, actually. Right after I got off the phone with you, I got a call. They’re demanding reparations, whatever that means.”

“It’s a trap, isn’t it?

Mary sighs, gives a small shrug. “Most likely. But don’t worry. I’m gonna start calling around, get some friends together. We’re not going in there alone.”

Cas nods. Now that they have a plan, or at least a semblance of one, his focus returns to the pounding in his head and the churning in his gut.

“Sweetie, are you okay? You look a little green.”

“I’m fine,” Cas gets out, just before he doubles over and retches in the entryway.

“Okay, all right, honey, let’s get you something fizzy and a bit of rest before we attempt a rescue mission,” she says. She guides him to the couch and pushes on his shoulders until he lies down. He closes his eyes and doesn’t open them when she returns with a cool rag for his forehead, nor when she makes him sit up to drink ginger ale.

“You just hang out here. I’m gonna make some calls.”

\--

Cas wakes up to the sound of quiet chatter. He recognizes Mary and Benny’s voices and hears someone he suspects is Andrea, based on the fondness in Benny’s voice as he addresses her. That’s all he’s able to deduce from the din, though. He steels himself before walking into the kitchen.

“Is that who I think it is?” says a redheaded woman as she stands up from her laptop.

“Charlie, Cas, Cas, Charlie,” Mary says. “Cas, everybody; everybody, Cas.”

He smiles a little when Charlie envelops him in a hug, but as soon as she releases him, all the other people in the room try to introduce themselves at once. He tries his best, but processing what everyone is saying, let alone associating names with faces, quickly becomes impossible.

“Okay, everybody settle down, let me do the introductions,” Mary finally says.

Despite Mary’s slow and precise effort, with the residual headache Cas can barely keep everyone straight. He catches Bobby, mostly because he’s heard Dean talk about him so much; Charlie, he remembers, because she seems determined to make sure he does so; he thinks the mother and daughter pair are Ellen and Jo, though that might be the pair of sheriffs, Donna and Jody. He doesn’t worry about it too much.

“Where’s Sam?” he asks when the clamor has died down.

“He knows what’s going on, but unless we really need him, I’m loathe to pull him away,” Mary explains. “His schedule’s been so busy lately.”

“Doesn’t he want to be here?”

“Sure he does. But I’m not letting him. Just because Dean is in trouble doesn’t mean he has to drop his entire life and save the day. That’s what extended family is for. You can’t rely on one person for everything,” she concludes.

“I suppose.” Cas sighs. “What’s the plan?”

“Well,” Bobby starts, “we’d better get going soon -- only a couple of hours of daylight left.”

“And nobody wants to hunt vampires at night,” Jo offers helpfully.

“Right, so. As soon as you’re ready, Sleeping Beauty, we’re heading out,” Jody says.

“Give me a minute to brush my teeth.”

\--

The nest turns out to be an old red barn, right in the center of downtown.

“Should this, you know, be here?” Donna asks as Cas thinks it. They’re crammed into Mary’s sedan: Mary and Bobby in the front, Cas squeezed into the backseat with Jody and Donna.

“People keep all sorts of weird stuff on their property,” Bobby replies. “The owner’s got the place a certified historical site, so they can’t demolish it. They keep a vamp palace on the property for a tax break.”

“How do you know they’re in there, exactly?” Cas asks.

“Owner’s made several police reports about homeless people using it as a campsite, but they never seem to actually catch ‘em,” Jody says. “The police department is just up the hill and yet, no dice.”

“All right, the rest of the gang is here,” Mary says as Benny’s truck pulls into the adjacent lot. “Let’s roll.”

Dean has given Cas a bunch of talks about avoiding the “shoot first ask questions later” tactic, but he’s pretty sure this is an exception, because their whole plan is just to storm the place. And really, it works. Jody kicks in the door and they all swoop in and the vamps don’t even have guns, which Cas thinks was poor planning on their part. He knows if he’d come on his own he would’ve had a problem, but if Dean and Mary have taught him anything, it’s that family and friends are there to help stop you from dying an avoidable death. _Work smart, not hard,_ he thinks, hearing Dean’s voice as he does. These vamps were gonna try and stop the Winchesters with just their teeth and their inhuman strength. Unbelievable.

They storm the place and the ratio of hunters to vamps is clearly not what the latter was expecting; Cas isn’t going to stop chopping off heads to count how many there are, but he’s pretty sure it’s close to 1:1. While the vamps might be fueled by a desire for revenge that’s been marinating for a decade, literally every hunter here is fueled by a present-day desire to not let Dean die, so they kind of have the advantage.

They find the last vamp hiding in the haymow, holding a knife to Dean’s throat. He has his hands tied behind his back and looks pretty roughed up and pale, like maybe the vamps have been feeding off him while they waited, but he’s got a defiant spark in his eyes. Cas takes it as a good sign. 

“Don’t come any closer or I’ll kill him, I swear,” the vamp says, and Cas freezes. He looks around to get a cue from anyone else when Benny steps forward.

“No, I really think you’re gonna let him go,” he says, and out of nowhere he has fangs, these big ugly _shark teeth,_ which, for some reason, was not what Cas had imagined.

Benny’s display surprises Dean’s captor long enough for Donna to come at him just off the edge of his periphery and that’s it, it’s all over.

There seems to be an unspoken understanding that Cas gets to be the one to go to Dean first, to untie him and fuss over him. To his surprise and relief, the first words out of Dean’s mouth after he unties the gag are, “Just part of the job. Knew you’d rescue me.”

“Pretty sure your mom gets all the credit for this one.” Cas laughs, a little hysterical, pulling Dean against his chest.

“Okay,” Dean mumbles into his shirt. “Just pretend so we can have kickass post-rescue sex.” 

At that point, the rest of the group seems to collectively decide that they’ve had enough time to themselves and descends in a massive group hug, which Cas thinks is better termed a dog pile. Mary gets there first, kissing Dean’s forehead and finally letting all her worry and panic pour out, a few tears falling down her face.

“Hey, mom, I’m okay,” Dean says, wiping away a tear with his thumb. “I’m okay, I promise.”

“I know, but you almost weren’t, and this was my fault--”

“Mom, please, you know it’s not. You dealt with it. You blew in the conch shell and, poof, Avengers Assemble! and all that. It’s okay.”

Mary smiles, sniffling. Cas chooses this moment to ask, only a little awkward, “So do we, um, go home now?”

“Well, generally,” Mary says, laughing, “when someone is injured--” 

“And exsanguinated!” Charlie contributes.

“And exsanguinated,” Mary sighs, “we take them to a hospital.”

Dean groans as Benny pulls him to his feet. “Yeah, hospital sounds good.”

\--

Everyone at St. David’s seems to recognize the group, which Cas is briefly concerned about until he realizes that this part of the job was going to come into focus eventually -- that there are bruises and lacerations and concussions and sometimes they’re going to need blood transfusions, which Dean is currently receiving. He had held Dean’s hand when they put the needle in. 

When Dean is discharged a few hours later, after everyone but Cas and Mary have left, he leans on Cas as they make their way to the car. Cas is pretty sure Dean doesn’t need his help to stand, but he likes that Dean leans on him anyway.

When they get outside and Mary asks if he wouldn’t be more comfortable staying with her, Dean groans.

“ _Mom_ ,” he whines, “I just wanna go home.” He draws out the last syllable for effect and Mary smiles, whacking his arm gently. She watches as Cas helps him into his car. When he’s done, she wraps him in a hug.

“I know you’ll take good care of him,” she says, and something in Cas’ chest pulls tight and makes his eyes sting and water.

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll let you know how he’s doing.”

“Please do,” she says, smiling. “Let me know if y’all need anything.”

\--

They’re both undeniably exhausted by the time they get back to Dean’s place. Cas helps Dean strip down to his boxers and brush his teeth before doing the same for himself, then half carries Dean to bed. He tucks them both under the covers, curling around Dean protectively.

Cas lies like that until Dean’s breathing evens out into the measured cadence of sleep, but even then, he finds he can’t will himself to drop off into unconsciousness. He’s still so wound up that he feels vaguely ill, and he knows himself well enough to suspect that no amount of exhaustion is going to change that.

He eventually sighs and untangles himself from Dean, getting up to pace around Dean’s living room in a futile attempt to tire himself out enough that he can actually sleep. After fifteen useless minutes, he gives up on that endeavor and settles for pulling a chair into the bedroom so he can watch Dean sleep without disturbing him with his tossing and turning.

Cas finally dozes as the sunrise starts to creep in through the blinds. He drags the chair back into the kitchen before climbing back into bed, settling for drifting in and out of consciousness as Dean snores away beside him.

\--

When Dean wakes well past noon, he finds Cas watching him semi-consciously. “Hey,” he says. “I’m fuckin’ exhausted.”

Cas grumbles in agreement as Dean drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He catches sight of himself in the mirror. He looks like shit, still pale from the blood loss, and there’s a new bruise forming on one cheek.

“What do you say we take it easy today?” Dean says as he returns to sit on the bed, brushing Cas’ hair back from his forehead. “Maybe continue our marathon? Pretty sure we’ve earned it.”

Cas nods, so they slowly make their way out of bed. They enjoy a long shower together before making their way to the living room and settling onto the couch in their pajamas. Dean orders some pizza before they start back where they left off on Star Trek, settling in for a promising day of sci-fi.

Dean is excited about the prospect of making it through the rest of Deep Space Nine, but with just two episodes left, he feels the weight of Cas against his shoulder suddenly increase as he sags against him.

“You're such an old person,” Dean teases, pulling Cas more firmly against him. “It's like 9 p.m.”

“ _You’re_ an old person,” Cas replies, or at least that’s what Dean thinks he says.

“Yeah, and you’re clearly half conscious.”

“Nuh uh,” Cas says, blearily. “‘m a quarter conscious at most. Maybe three sixteenths.”

Dean just smiles and says, “Yes, and rapidly approaching zero. C'mon, let's go to bed.” Cas is stubborn when he’s awake, but in this state he’s downright petulant. Dean has to manhandle him into the bedroom, wrapping his arm underneath Cas’ shoulderblades and hoisting him up. After a moment passes when Dean is actually a little afraid that he’s going to have to carry Cas to the bedroom, Cas puts one foot in front of the other and gets to the edge of the bed.

Dean is not ashamed to admit that Cas looks ridiculous and adorable in his rumpled clothes. He would be happy to manhandle Cas out of those, too, but he thinks that maybe it’s a little easier for them both if Cas does it himself, so he convinces Cas to strip down to his boxers and t-shirt.

Dean leads Cas back to the bed and tucks him in before moving around to the other side to get in himself. He pulls the covers over them and scoots up behind Cas so that his chest is pressed against Cas’ back because hey, sometimes he wants to be the big spoon, too. He wraps his arm around Cas’ waist and presses his nose into a spot where hair fades into skin, staying there and breathing for a little while. Objectively, he knows it’s not the best time because Cas is already dozing, but he rubs his stubble the back of Cas’ neck and says, very quietly and casually, “Hey. Cas. I love you.” Just to see how the words feel. And it turns out they feel great. It feels true, like he could go on saying it every day forever regardless of whether Cas can hear him or not.

Cas shifts even closer and mumbles something unintelligible.

“Well, not sure if that was an ‘I love you, too’, so I’ll check back with you tomorrow,” Dean sighs contentedly. He’s asleep before he realizes how exhausted he still feels.

\--

Cas wakes up the next morning before the sun has even risen. At first he’s confused. He doesn’t remember getting into bed; he doesn’t even remember falling asleep, and it’s been a while since he’s slept through the night. Gradually, though, he wakes up and hazy pieces of memory float back to him. He has a vague sense memory of Dean more or less carrying him to bed, of the feel of his shirt coming off over his shoulder, and he _swears_ he recalls Dean saying -- well. 

He rolls over very carefully in Dean’s arms to face at him as sunlight starts to filter in through the windows, like maybe something in Dean’s face as he sleeps will reveal whether Cas dreamt the whole thing. But Dean doesn’t look any different from usual, really. He just looks like Dean. He’s drooling on the pillow a little, Cas notices, but he doesn’t mind.

Cas stares at Dean for an hour, trying to decode the soft wrinkles around his eyes and the shadows his eyelashes cast over his cheeks. Around seven, Dean starts to smack gently, a noise Cas has become familiar with hearing whenever Dean is in the last stages of a REM cycle.

Maybe it’s a testament to how much time Dean has spent around Cas lately that he doesn’t even seem startled when first thing he sees is Cas, face a few inches from his own, staring at him intensely. Dean stares right back, eyes briefly wandering over Cas’ face before he breaks into a smile. Dean pulls his hand from Cas’ waist to make a futile attempt to brush his bedhead out of his face and says, “Morning, Cas. Love you.” 

Cas lets out a long breath. “Is that,” he starts to ask, but his throat is dry from sleep, so he coughs and tries again. “Is that what you said last night, too? I didn’t dream it?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, dummy. Do you need to hear it again?” Dean asks as he runs his palm along Cas’ cheek.

“Yes, please.”

“Third time’s the charm,” Dean says fondly before he repeats, “You’re such a dork. I love you.”

A thrill runs through Cas’ body as he says, “I love you, too.”

Cas’ heart is already racing as Dean pulls Cas’ face closer and kisses him. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of the sensation of Dean’s stubble under his palm, of the texture of his lips, of the way Dean is shifting easily to accommodate the knee Cas is wedging between Dean’s legs. He can feel Dean’s breath, hot against his mouth, and Dean’s grip tight in his shirt. Well, technically, Cas supposes it’s _Dean’s_ shirt, but semantics aside, Dean has apparently decided it’s definitely in the way.

“Off,” is all Dean manages to get out before his hands are slipping under the fabric and shoving it up. The shirt gets caught awkwardly at Cas’ armpits, forcing Cas to raise his arms like a child to let Dean undress him, and Dean laughs a little when he catches sight of Cas’ serious expression. Then Cas is reciprocating, pulling at Dean’s clothes uncertainly as he struggles to get them off, and Dean is laughing again.

“Let me help you with that,” Dean says, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Cas’ mouth before pulling away and yanking his shirt over his head. “Might as well get these off while we’re at it,” he adds before slipping his sweatpants and boxers off in one swift motion. Then his hands are back at Cas’s waist, then down to his hips, and he’s pulling at the layers of elastic there.

As soon as Cas is naked, he presses back up against Dean insistently, pulling Dean’s leg over his hip. He runs his hand up and down Dean’s thigh, moving back to palm his ass, pausing with his hands against Dean’s bare skin.

“You’re very smooth,” Cas notes, pulling away slightly. He isn’t quite sure how this is the first time he’s noticed.

“Well, yeah,” Dean says, shifting in Cas’ arms, apparently unperturbed by the observation if not by the fact Cas’ hands have ceased wandering over his skin. “Kinda have to be for work, you know.”

“Does it bother you that I’m not?” Cas is suddenly exceedingly aware of his own body hair.

“Christ, no,” Dean practically exclaims. Cas tries his best not to look skeptical, even as Dean runs his hands over the backs of Cas’ thighs.

Dean grabs Cas by the shoulders and pushes him back so that he can scoot down. “No, no, no,” he murmurs as he presses his face against the hair underneath Cas’ belly button. Then his nose is in Cas’ pubic hair and he’s actually _nuzzling,_ letting his lips drag over the base of Cas’ dick as he does so.

Dean takes Cas into his mouth easily, not needing to use his hands to help him like Cas did when their positions were reversed. Cas curls his fingers against Dean’s scalp as he wraps his legs around Dean’s torso, pressing his heels into Dean’s back as he tries not to crush Dean’s face with his thighs. There’s a tingling sensation spreading across every inch of Cas’ skin, and he’s not sure what the cause is, whether it’s a lingering effect of Dean’s _I love you_ or a present effect of what Dean is doing to his dick. He supposes it doesn’t matter, but riding this high, feeling this good, all he knows is suddenly he wants _more._

Dean gives a surprised grunt when Cas pulls him up so that they’re face to face.

“Sorry, just, I wanted you,” he says, kissing Dean instead of finishing his sentence. They lay like that for a while, exchanging slow kisses, until Cas shifts to roll on top of Dean. Cas’ erection is pressing against Dean’s thigh, but as he moves to find a better angle, Dean brings his hands from Cas’ face to rest against his shoulders, pushing him back gently.

“Whoa, partner,” Dean says, looks uncharacteristically nervous. “Put on the brakes.”

Cas pulls away, confused. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Dean swallows as he speaks. “Really,” he adds, in response to Cas’ concerned frown. “I’m happy. And. I mean, I want to keep going. I think.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. No, I know. I just. Can we, you know, switch?” Dean looks down at his hands as though fighting the urge to move them to cover his face.

“Of course, Dean.” Cas’ smile is easy as he slides off of Dean, and for a moment, Dean actually does bury his face in the crook of his elbow.

“I’m sorry, it’s just. I don’t know why, I don’t feel comfortable with you on top.” Dean grimaces and gestures at his erection. “I want to keep going. I’m sorry.” In the months since they met, Cas has never seen Dean blush so deeply or look anything close to self-conscious. But now, Dean is flushed from cheeks to sternum, his eyebrows are knitted, and his grip is tight on Cas’ bicep.

“Dean, it’s okay,” Cas tries to soothe him, drags his hand through Dean’s hair. “Come here.” He smiles as gently as he can and pulls at Dean’s arm. When Dean is settled on top of him, one leg in between Cas’, he feels Dean’s chest contract as he exhales.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be like this,” Dean says.

“Be like what?” Cas asks.

 

“You know. I don’t know.” Dean groans dramatically, running a hand over his face. “I mean, nervous. I feel stupid.”

“Dean, it’s okay.” Cas smiles, nudges his nose against Dean’s in an effort to encourage him to look up. Instead Dean groans again, laughing a little, and presses his forehead into Cas’ chest. Cas rubs his chin against Dean’s hair, runs his hands over Dean’s shoulders and back. He doesn’t move for a while, waiting for Dean to decide what’s going to happen next.

He feels more than hears Dean take a deep breath. Cas cranes his neck to look down at the top of Dean’s head when he’s met with Dean’s gaze instead. His eyes are open and more green than usual in the early morning light. His chin digs into Cas’ chest.

Dean leans up to kiss Cas, then. It’s heavier than Cas anticipated, Dean’s full weight behind it, as though trying to convey that he _is_ sure, that this isn’t a matter of pressure or obligation. Dean’s lips are warm against his as Dean parts them slightly, deepening the kiss. Before long, Dean has begun to rock his hips against Cas, using one leg to push Cas’ further apart.

Underneath him, Cas is breathless. He hopes, intensely, that this is what Dean wants, that he is what Dean wants. He feels Dean’s erection against his leg as a resounding “yes” and takes that as permission to start moving, to wrap his legs around Dean’s waist and press his heels against the backs of Dean’s thighs.

“You’re okay with this?” Dean asks as he pulls away. “I mean, you’re okay, you know, bottoming?” Dean cringes at the word. Cas shrugs.

“I don’t see the difference,” he says, honestly. “I would do anything for you, Dean. I would do anything _with_ you.” It’s cheesy, Cas supposes, but he means every word, and the way Dean is looking back at him so intently, Cas knows he gets it.

“All right, all right, I believe you,” Dean says. “I just, you’re not worried about, um.” He gestures vaguely, as though hoping desperately that Cas will divine what he’s thinking. “About me hurting you?”

“You have given me no reason to doubt you,” Cas says, and then Dean is back to kissing Cas, as though trying to convey how happy he is that Cas is okay with this when he doesn’t really understand it himself.

“Okay,” he whispers and kisses Cas quickly. “Okay.” He reaches toward the nightstand and comes back with a small bottle. “You’re sure?” he breathes. Cas nods and Dean flips the cap off the lube and smiles. He sits back on his knees to slick himself up. The lube must be cold because Dean hisses, and Cas laughs beneath him.

“Oh yeah?” Dean smiles as he leans down. “You think that’s funny?” Cas nods, his laugher growing with Dean’s smile. He doesn’t notice Dean squeezing more lube onto his fingers until Dean’s pressing them against Cas and he’s gasping at the cold.

“Not so funny now, huh?”

“N-no,” Cas gasps as Dean circles his finger around Cas’ hole in increasingly tighter circles, teasing. By the time Dean slips a finger in, though, Cas has forgotten all about the temperature. Heat spreads through Cas’ body, and before long he’s gasping and thrusting his hips down to meet the movement of Dean’s hand.

“Yeah?” is all Dean can gasp as he works his index finger past the first knuckle. Cas’ eyes are squeezed shut. Dean pushes a little further in and crooks his finger and Cas gasps.

“More,” Cas gasps, and Dean smiles, looking a little surprised. He circles his finger widely before pulling back and adding more lube, cautiously pressing his middle finger along with the first. He pulls out and pushes back in experimentally, bending his fingers tighter against Cas’ body.

Cas groans, his hips bucking up to press against Dean’s torso. Dean smiles and presses a quick, dry kiss to the tip of Cas’ dick that makes Cas groan. Dean follows the curve of Cas’ hips with his hands and leans forward, so that now he’s on his knees with Cas’ legs over his shoulders.

“One more, Cas. Can you do that for me?” Cas nods and gasps when Dean presses the tip of a third finger inside between the other two and spreads them a little, testing Cas’ limits. When his hand moves from gripping the sheet to pulling at his dick, Dean grins and fucks him with his fingers, slowly at first, then faster as Cas’ mouth falls open.

Cas gasps as Dean pulls away to put on a condom. He feels cold without Dean pressed against him, without the warmth of Dean’s face against his thigh. He makes a noise of protest, but Dean simply flashes him a grin, tearing open the package and pulling on the condom in a practiced motion.

It feels far too long, but it’s mere seconds before Dean is back above him, pulling Cas’ legs over his shoulders.

“You ready?” Dean asks, quietly. There’s a hint of self-consciousness in his voice that makes Cas’ chest tighten, and he pulls Dean down to kiss him.

“Yes,” he whispers between kisses. Dean nods and braces himself, cradles the back of Cas’ neck with one hand while trying to balance with the other. Cas reaches down to help guide him and he gasps at the sharp intrusion, the sudden, intense pressure that’s a mix of pain and pleasure.

“Fuck, are you okay?” Dean asks, pulling away.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Cas says, “but I think, um, more lube?” Dean nods and grabs the bottle, applying more than is probably necessary, but Cas figures they may as well err on the side of caution. It’s taking longer than he would like to get used to the slick, cold feeling, but he smiles anyway when Dean hovers over him again.

“Better?” Dean asks, giving his hips a gentle thrust. He’s only halfway inside Cas, but he’s taut with the effort of holding almost completely still, as though scared to move, scared to hurt Cas. Cas has relaxed a bit, though, his breathing even if rapid, and he only clenches his hands in the sheets to help him gain leverage.

“Yes,” Cas says, smiling. “Dean, please.”

Dean moves slowly at first, anyway, watching Cas’ face for any sign of pain. Cas smiles back reassuringly until Dean bottoms out and Cas’ head falls back involuntarily, a choked gasp escaping his lips, back arching so that his shoulders push him off the bed.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Dean says, skimming gentle fingers over Cas’ open mouth, the sharp angles of his collarbones, the jut of his hips.

Dean finally starts moving, the thrust of his hips controlled and unhurried. Dean closes his eyes and Cas follows suit, focusing on the warmth of Dean inside him, the feel of his skin under Cas’ hands, Dean’s increasingly erratic breathing. Cas doesn’t even try to suppress the desperate little noises he’s making as Dean picks up his pace. Dean leans forward to press kisses along the line of Cas’ jaw, grinning against his skin at the keening noise Cas makes as he does so. When Cas arches his back slightly, pressing his erection into Dean’s stomach, Dean leans down to balance himself on an elbow and reaches between them to wrap his hand around Cas’ cock

Cas lets out a long breath, opening his eyes just in time to catch Dean smiling broadly before he starts fucking Cas harder. “Want you to feel good, Cas,” Dean says breathlessly. “Want you do feel so good.”

Cas feels like he’s losing track of his limbs, of his body, his entire world narrowed only to the points where Dean’s skin is in contact with his own. Dean presses his face against Cas’ neck, trailing kisses down to his shoulder before pulling away, burying himself in Cas but keeping his thrusts just this side of detectable as he gently jerks Cas off.

“Dean,” Cas moans, voice trailing off into a sigh.

“Yeah?” Dean picks up his speed again, his thrusts punctuated with Cas’ moans.

“Ah -- yeah, like that,” Cas moans, arching up off the bed again. He wants to keep his eyes open so he can memorize the way Dean is looking at him, trailing his gaze over the deep dent of his cupid’s bow, his open mouth, his bare torso.

“Cas,” Dean gasps, everything he’s feeling compressed into that one word. He seems like he can barely keep himself in check, the rhythm of his hips and the movement of his hand on Cas’ cock becoming more and more erratic, and Cas can feel himself losing control, too. Suddenly Cas is aware of the sound of Dean’s hips hitting the back of his thighs, but it quickly becomes no more than background noise to Dean’s labored breath in his ear. Cas is distantly aware that he’s losing control of his voice the faster Dean moves his hips.

“Yes, Dean--” Cas only manages to get out the two syllables before he’s rearing off the bed again, eyes closed.

Dean guides Cas’ hand downward and leans down to bite at Cas’ jaw, over his jugular, as Cas enthusiastically picks up where Dean left off. Cas laughs in breathless awe underneath Dean’s mouth, body suddenly going rigid when Dean teases at his ear with his teeth.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Cas says in a long breath, legs tensing around Dean’s hips, wetness spreading over his stomach and chest in long pulses. “Dean, oh god.” He feels his legs burning from being held open but fights the urge to collapse, whispering Dean’s name over and over in his ear as he comes down from his orgasm.

Dean seems to lose control at the sound of his name on Cas’ lips and shouts against Cas’ neck as he comes.

They stay like that for a minute, lying against one another, breathing each other’s air, trying to compose themselves.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean laughs, face still pressed against Cas’ neck. Cas hums contentedly, running his hands up and down the span of Dean’s back. When Dean’s breathing slowly enough that he can speak normally again, he says, “So, pancakes?”

Cas wakes the following Saturday morning to an empty bed. The sunlight is bright in Dean’s bedroom, and he spends a minute blinking, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He goes to find Dean and sees him standing in front of the TV, remote in hand. The beginnings of a “good morning” start in his throat when he notices how awkwardly Dean is standing, in the middle of the living room like maybe he was just passing by on his way to kitchen, frowning at the news as it flashes across the television screen.

Cas echoes his frown and goes to stand next to him, to see what’s making his brow furrow so deeply. He gets there just in time to hear the anchor giving a warning for graphic content. His stomach drops a little.

The feed switches to an aerial view of a body sprawled in the middle of the highway, ruined cars piled around, blood seeping from a hole in the middle of the person’s chest. There’s a spotlight scanning the scene and as it moves, black marks become discernable on the asphalt. They spread from the body and span at least ten feet, probably more, in either direction.

“Are those wings?” Cas asks, frowning. Dean shakes his head silently, intent on the screen.

The news anchor goes on to describe other recent deaths, deaths with scenes that look similar with the same lack of explanation. The police are puzzled about what exactly is going on, if this is a serial killer leaving these wings painted or burnt or _whatever_ into the ground as a trademark, a calling card. They’re trying to find things to link the victims, but so far no obvious connections have come to light. The anchor promises that they’ll continue to report on the story as new details emerge.

Dean finally looks up to make eye contact. 

“Well, guess we know how we’re spending our afternoon. Better eat a good breakfast,” he says, and finally makes his way to the kitchen.

\--

“So what do you think, Cas? Vengeful spirit? Some sort of urban myth?”

“The wounds aren’t consistent with any weapon I’m familiar with,” Cas says as he flips through the autopsy reports. He pauses for a moment on a close up of a chest wound.

“The wound is too clean for a werewolf,” he continues, scowling. “And in the wrong place for a vampire. Ghoul, maybe?” 

“They wouldn’t leave the body around like that. Gotta keep it hidden if you’re gonna, you know, live as that person.” Dean shakes his head, blinking rapidly and sighing. “I’ve been staring at this laptop for so long I think my eyes are starting to dry out, and I still have no fucking clue what this thing is. I say if, or more like when, another body turns up with wings, we go down there. Check it out ourselves, see if we can smell any sulfur or get any weird vibes.” Dean lets out another deep breath and stands up.

“I’ve gotta get ready for work,” he says, and Cas watches as he walks toward the bedroom. He throws a salacious grin over his shoulder as he slips his sweatpants off in the doorway.

Castiel has always considered himself strong-willed, but his self control is slipping. 

\--

They get their chance less than a week later. Dean’s been streaming the police feeds when the club is slow, and Cas has been monitoring in between meetings. It’s during Cas’ lunch that the suspicious call comes across the airwaves, and he stops chewing so that he can hear every word.

“We have a 10-54 on the access road at MLK, all units in area please respond.” He pulls a list of scanner codes out of his desk drawer and runs his finger down it until he hits the number. Possible dead body.

“One-Adam-Fourteen, 10-97.” Arrived at scene.

“Looks like you were right. We’re gonna need backup, 11-44.” Deceased person, coroner required.

“10-4, One-Adam-Fourteen. Anything else we should know?” A minute passes. Cas feels his shoulders tense with each second.

“Might be connected to other recent events. Be advised, media will probably be on the scene soon.”

Cas is out the door before he gets his jacket on. He leaves his sandwich to dry out on the desk.

\--

Dean meets him at the scene. He takes Cas to the side, pulls him close for a second to tuck a fake FBI badge into his coat pocket. His hands are at Cas’ collar, buttoning it closed at the top.

“We don’t usually role play; you good with this?” Dean asks as he straightens Cas’ tie.

“Yes.” He nods. Dean mirrors the gesture and walks away, toward the yellow crime scene tape. He ducks under it and motions for Cas to follow.

They introduce themselves to the police officers and take stock of the scene. Sure enough, there are charcoal wings radiating from the shoulders across the ground and up onto the wall of the adjacent building. Cas takes his time, catalogues the angle and the sheer height of some of the scorch marks. He doesn’t think a human could’ve done this. Not without being noticed.

Suddenly, Dean is crouching down as though to examine the marks more closely. He gestures to Cas to do the same, and when Cas kneels, Dean shuffles close, tilting his head toward Cas.

“Don’t turn around, but there’s a guy in a suit watching this whole scene.” Cas nods and barely stops himself from turning around. “And he’s definitely not with the cops. Looks a little too interested for my liking.”

“So what’s the plan?” Cas runs his finger over the asphalt, thinking.

Dean is going through the options, considering all courses of action, when he notices the guy turn and start walking briskly away. He quickly reevaluates. He’s up and walking before Cas registers what’s happened. Cas follows, but Dean disappears around a corner before he catches up.

He’s met with the image of Dean pressed against the brick alley wall, hard enough that he’s on his tip toes. There’s a long, triangular blade pressed to his throat. Cas is briefly mystified by the sharp glare of sunlight it reflects.

“Dean!” 

Dean raises his hand in a halt motion, but it’s pointless. His assailant is already spinning around to face Cas, brandishing his blade, but as soon as their gazes meet, he freezes.

“Castiel,” he breathes, eyes wide.

Cas doesn’t even have time to get out a confused, “What?” before Dean whips a knife from his waistband and lunges at the stranger’s exposed back, slamming it right between his shoulder blades.

The man doesn’t crumple like Cas expects, doesn’t even scream. Instead he just vanishes. Disappears with a rustling sound that leaves Cas staring and Dean rubbing at his throat, eyebrows raised.

“Did you hear that?” Dean asks, finally. “That sound. You know what that sounded like?”

“Wings,” Cas says, shifting uncomfortably. “It sounded like wings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Another massive thanks to everyone that supported us through this process. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> While this is a complete work in and of itself, it is part of a larger verse for which we may or may not write additional fic.


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